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GRAND  SIECLE  EDITION 


THE   MASTERPIECES 

AND    THE 

HISTORY    OF    LITERATURE 


GRAND   SIECLE   EDITION 


THE  MASTERPIECES 


AND     THK 


HISTORY  OF  LITERATURE 

ANALYSIS,  CRITICISM,  CHARACTER 
AND   INCIDENT 

EDITED     BY 

JULIAN    HAWTHORNE        JOHN    RUSSELL   YOUNG 
JOHN  PORTER  LAMBERTON  OLIVER  H.  G.  LEIGH 


FORTY    PHOTOGRAVURE    PLATES 


COMPLETE    IN   TEN  VOLUMES 


VOLUME   IX 


NEW   YORK 


CHICAGO 


E.  R.   DU  MONT 
1903 


v,  9 


Copyright  1899, 
By  ART  LIBRARY  PUBLISHING  CO. 

Copyright,  1002, 
By  E.  R.  DU  MONT 


FABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


PACK 

AMERICAN  LITERATURE— PERIOD  I.  COLONIAL 9 

CAPTAIN  JOHN  SMITH 12 

Captain  John  Smith1  s  Captivity 13 

NEW  ENGLAND 15 

MRS.  ANNE  BRADSTREET 16 

A  Love- Letter  to  her  Husband 17 

MICHAEL  WIGGLESWORTH 18 

A  Song  of  Emptiness — Vanity  of  Vanities .  18 

COTTON  MATHER 19 

The  Life  of  Ralph  Partridge 20 

On  the  Death  of  his  Son 21 

BISHOP  GEORGE  BERKELEY 22 

America 23 

AMERICAN   LITERATURE— PERIOD  II.     LITERATURE   OF   THE 

REVOLUTION 24 

BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 26 

Poor  Richard's  Almanac 28 

The  Way  to  Wealth 29 

Turning  the  Grindstone 33 

Letter  to  Madame  Helvetius 34 

\  OHN  TRUMBULL 36 

The  Town  Meeting,  P.  M. 38 

McFingaVs  Vision  of  America's  Future 41 

FRANCIS  HOPKINSON 42 

The  Battle  of  the  Kegs 43 

PHILIP  FRENEAU 45 

The  Old  Indian  Burying  Ground 46 

The  Early  New  Englanders 47 

TIMOTHY  DWIGHT 48 

Columbia *  ....  49 


2  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

AMERICAN  LITERATURE.— PERIOD  II.  (CONTINUED). 

C.  B.  BROWN 50 

Yellow  Fever  in  Philadelphia  in  1793 51 

Welbeck  and  Mervyn 53 

JOEL  BARLOW 59 

Hasty  Pudding 60 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE— PERIOD  III.    NATIONAL 63 

WASHINGTON  IRVING 67 

Death  of  Peter  Stuyvesant  69 

Rip  Van  Winkle's  Return .  71 

Ichabod  Crane  and  Katrina  Van  Tassel 76 

The  Broken  Heart 80 

JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER 83 

The  Ariel  on  the  Shoals 85 

Deer  slayer  Becomes  Hawkey e 91 

Uncas  Before  Tamenund 95 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT 100 

Thanatopsis 102 

The  Death  of  the  Flowers 104 

Waiting  by  the  Gate 105 

The  Battlefield 106 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 108 

Nature no 

Napoleon 112 

The  English  Race 113 

Days 115 

Concord  Fight 115 

Law  of  Love , 116 

Give  All  to  Love 117 

The  Pine  Tree 118 

The  Day's  Ration 119 

HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW 120 

The  Open  Window ' 122 

Pegasus  in  Pound 123 

The  Cumberland .  . •  124 

Paul  Revere* s  Ride 126 

Hawthorne 128 

Evangeline  and  the  Indian  Woman 129 


TABLE  OP  CONTENTS.  3 

PAGE 

AMERICAN  LITERATURE.— PERIOD  III.  (CONTINUED). 

Evangeline  finds  her  Lover 131 

The  Song  of  Hiawatha 133 

Emma  and  Eginhard 135 

EDGAR  AU,AN  POE '39 

The  Bells 141 

The  Raven 144 

Lady  Madeline  of  Usher 148 

FITZ-GREENE  HAHECK 150 

On  the  Death  of  Jos.  R.  Drake 151 

Marco  Bozzaris 152 

NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE *55 

Hester  Prynne  and  the  Pastor 158 

Donatello  and  the  Marble  Faun 162 

Miriam  and  Hilda 167 

HERMAN  MEI/VTU,E     172 

Bembo  Rescued  from  the  Crew 172 

JOHN  PENDI,ETON  KENNEDY 174 

A  Boy  Soldier 174 

WII^IAM  GII,MORE  SIMMS 180 

The  Maiden  and  the  Rattlesnake 180 

HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE 185 

Crossing  the  Ohio  on  Ice 186 

Eva  and  Topsy 191 

ENGLISH  LITERATURE— PERIOD  VII 195 

GEORGE  CRABBE 198 

Phcebe  Dawson 198 

The  Approach  of  Old  Age 201 

LORD  BYRON 202 

Greece  in  Her  Decay 20$ 

Chilian 206 

The  Ocean 207 

The  Dying  Gladiator 208 

Childe  Harold 209 

The  Shipwreck 210 

Haidee  Visits  Don  Juan 211 

The  Death  of  Haidee 212 

Manfred 214 

Byron's  Last  Lines 217 


4  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

ENGLISH  LITERATURE.— PERIOD  VII.  (CONTINUED). 

PERCY BYSSHE SHEW,EY 219 

To  a  Skylark 221 

JOHN  KEATS 225 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn 226 

On  First  Looking  into  Chapman's  Homer 228 

LEIGH  HUNT 228 

Funeral  of  the  Lovers 229 

Death 230 

Abou  Ben  Adhem 231 

Rondeau 231 

THOMAS  MOORE 232 

Love's  Young  Dream 233 

The  Vale  of  Cashmere 234 

The  Temple  of  Isis 235 

CHARGES  LAMB 239 

Scotchmen 240 

Mrs.  Battle's  Opinions  on  Whist 243 

Hester 244 

The  Old  Familiar  Faces 245 

The  Family  Name 246 

SAMUEI/  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 247 

The  Ancient  Mariner 249 

Genevieve 254 

Youth  and  Age 256 

Wm,iAM  WORDSWORTH 258 

A  Portrait 260 

Laodamia 261 

Intimations  of  Immortality  from  Recollections  of  Early  Child- 
hood      263 

The  Sonnet 265 

The  World  is  Too  Much  With  Us 266 

London 266 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY 267 

My  Books 268 

The  Holly  Tree •   • 269 

THOMAS  CAMPBELL 271 

Ye  Mariners  of  England 271 

The  Battle  of  the  Baltic 273 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS.  5 

I'AOB 

ENGLISH  LITERATURE.— PERIOD  VII.  (CONTINUED). 

THOMAS  HOOD 275 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs 276 

The  Death-Bed 277 

Song  of  the  Shirt 278 

EDWARD  BUZ,WER,  LORD  LVTTON 281 

Glaucus  sends  Nydia  to  lone 283 

Kenelm>s  Fight  with  Tom  Bowles 290 

SYDNEY  SMITH 297 

The  Founding  of  the  Edinburgh  Review 298 

Mrs.  Partington 300 

Dr.  Parr's  Sermon 300 

CHARGES  DICKENS 301 

Pickwick  Returns  Thanks 305 

Sam  Welter's  Valentine 308 

Mark  Taplefs  Venture 313 

Little  Nell  and  Her  Grandfather 319 


GERMAN  LITERATURE.— PERIOD  V.    PART  II 324 

JEAN  PAUL  RICHTER 328 

Quintus  Fixlein's  Wedding 331 

NOVAUS 336 

The  Poet* s  Daughter 336 

Fragments 340 

LuDwiGTiECK 341 

The  Christmas  Festival 342 

J.  H.  D.  ZSCHOKKE 344 

The  New  Year's  Gift 344 

J.  AND  W.  GRIMM 348 

The  Sleeping  Beauty 348 

German  Tales 351 

BARON  DE  LA  MOTTE  FOUQU£ 352 

Undine  and  Huldbrand 353 

The  Sealed  Fountain 362 

FRENCH  LITERATURE.— PART  VIII 366 

VICTOR  HUGO 369 

The  Djinns 372 

Bishop  Myriel  and  the  Conventionist 373 


6  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

FRENCH  LITERATURE.— PART  VIII.  (CONTINUED). 

P.  j.  BERANGER 384 

The  King  of  Yvetot 386 

The  White  Cockade 387 

The  Remembrances  of  the  People 388 

Roger  Holiday 389 

Low-Born 390 

My  Little  Corner 391 

GEORGE  SAND „  ...  393 

Consuelo^s  Triumph  .  394 

The  Ploughman  and  His  Child 397 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 


VOLUME  IX. 

ARTIST,  PAGE. 

MANFRED  AND  ASTARTE K.  Liska  .  Frontispiece 

EVANGELINE Thomas  Faed    .   .   .  129 

ALETHE,  PRIESTESS  OF  Isis Edwin  Long .    .   .   .  236 

BISHOP  MYRIEL  AND  THE  CONVENTIONIST    .   .   .  L.  A.  Jamison  .   .   .  373 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE. 

PERIOD  I. — COLONIAL.     1607-1765. 


JOLONIAL  America  is  divided  historically  into  two 
periods.  The  first  beginning  with  the  settlement 
of  Jamestown,  Virginia,  in  1607,  ends  with  the 
date  of  Bacon's  Rebellion  and  King  Philip's 
War,  in  1676.  In  those  seventy  years  a  section  of 
the  English  people  snatched  from  country  towns  and 
busy  cities  made  new  dwellings  in  a  primitive  and  dan- 
gerous wilderness,  where  they  were  home-sick  and  yearn- 
ing to  keep  in  touch  with  absent  friends;  or,  as  in  the 
case  of  the  Puritans,  in  love  with  their  freedom,  perilous 
as  it  was,  and  anxious  to  coax  and  win  others  to  try  the 
dangers  of  the  deep  and  of  their  environment,  for  sweet 
Liberty's  sake.  Naturally  enough,  their  records  were,  at  first, 
in  the  form  of  letters,  the  daily  happenings,  work,  perils  of 
the  colonists,  with  accounts  of  strange  fauna  and  flora,  and 
descriptions  of  that  horrible  man-monster,  the  American 
Indian.  Yet  Captain  John  Smith  wrote  a  book  called  "The 
True  Relation  of  Virginia"  (1608),  enlarged  later  into  "The 
General  History  of  Virginia,"  mostly  a  compilation,  vigor- 
ously colored  with  his  own  personality,  and  containing  the 
rude  germ  of  the  charming  legend  of  Pocahontas.  In  the 
second  period  Robert  Berkeley  wrote  a  "  History  of  Virginia," 
published  in  London  in  1705,  less  personal,  full  of  observation 
of  plants,  animals  and  Indians,  but  not  free  from  prejudice. 
The  Virginians  were  churchmen  and  royalists,  a  wealthy, 


10  UTERATURE  OF  AM,  NATIONS. 

worldly,  cheerful,  gaming,  hunting,  and  often  illiterate  set. 
Still  the  records  of  that  colony,  whether  in  letter,  diary,  or 
book,  bear  the  impress  of  their  surroundings,  and  were 
directly  valuable  in  broadening  and  enriching  the  English 
literature  of  that  day. 

The  Puritan  colonies  were  theocracies,  the  mass  of  the 
people  being  men  of  the  middle  class,  mechanics  and  farmers. 
But  their  leaders  were  clergymen,  educated  at  the  universities, 
who,  to  use  the  language  of  Mather,  ufelt  that  without  a  col- 
lege these  regions  would  have  been  mere  unwatered  places  for 
the  devil."  Harvard  College  was  accordingly  founded  in 
1638,  and  a  printing  press  set  up  in  Cambridge  in  1639,  under 
the  oversight  of  the  university  authorities. 

The  first  English  book  issued  in  America  was  a  collection 
of  David's  Psalms  in  metre,  called  uThe  Bay  Psalm  Book," 
and  intended  for  singing  in  divine  worship,  public  and  private. 
Ere  long  new  writers  employed  the  press,  mostly  divines, 
famous  and  useful  in  their  own  congregations  and  town  and 
time,  whose  themes  were  the  vanity  of  life,  impending  doom 
and  the  immanence  of  sin ;  their  names  form  the  lists  in  for- 
gotten catalogues ;  their  books  moulder  in  the  dimness  of 
attic  libraries,  or  on  the  shelves  of  octogenarian  bibliophiles. 

A  different  personality  does  stand  out  in  this  first  Puritan 
period,  that  of  Mrs.  Anne  Bradstreet,  the  poet,  not  because  of 
the  beauty  of  her  verse,  as  we  judge  poetry  nowadays,  but 
because  of  the  sweet  and  powerful  influence  it  exerted  during 
a  long  life,  and  by  reason  of  the  grief  of  her  disciples,  John 
Norton  and  John  Rogers,  who  commenced  the  second  colo- 
nial period  of  Puritan  literature  with  graceful  and  mournful 
elegies  on  her  death. 

This  second  period  began  in  1676,  and  ended  with  the 
early  struggles  of  the  American  Revolution.  It  contains 
such  names  as  that  of  Michael  Wigglesworth,  "the  explicit 
and  unshrinking  rhymer  of  the  Five  Points  of  Calvinism." 
The  Puritan  religion,  as  developed  amid  the  hardships  of  the 
American  wilderness,  became  narrow,  intense,  and  gloomy ; 
and  these  poems  of  anguish  and  of  the  wrath  of  God,  were 
read  and  studied  with  the  Bible  and  the  Shorter  Catechism. 

The  Mather  family  ruled  intellectually  in  New  England 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  II 

for  three  generations,  the  greatest  of  the  great  name  being 
Cotton  Mather,  who  was  born  in  1663,  and  died  in  1728. 
He  had  an  enormous  memory,  enormous  industry,  and  enor- 
mous vanity.  He  was  devout  in  all  the  minutiae  of  life: 
poking  the  fire,  winding  the  clock,  putting  out  the  candle, 
washing  his  hands,  and  paring  his  nails,  with  appropriate 
religious  texts  and  meditations.  He  knew  Hebrew,  Latin, 
Greek,  French,  Spanish,  and  one  Indian  tongue.  He  had  the 
largest  private  library  in  America.  He  wrote  many  books,  the 
names  of  some  being  as  follows :  "  Boanerges.  A  Short  Essay 
to  Strengthen  the  Impressions  Produced  by  Earthquakes ; ' J 
"The  Comforts  of  One  Walking  Through  the  Valley  of  the 
Shadow  of  Death  ; "  "  Ornaments  for  the  Daughters  of  Zion  ; " 
"The  Peculiar  Treasure  of  the  Almighty  King  Opened," 
etc.  He  also  compiled  the  most  famous  book  produced  by 
any  American  during  the  colonial  time:  u  Magnalia  Christi 
Americana ;  or,  The  Ecclesiastical  History  of  New  England, 
from  its  first  planting  in  the  year  1620  unto  the  year  of  Our 
Lord,  1698."  It  is  a  history  of  the  settlement  of  New  Eng- 
land, with  lives  of  its  governors,  magistrates  and  divines ;  a 
history  of  Harvard  College  and  the  churches ;  an  account  of 
the  '  *  Wars  of  the  Lord, ' '  narrating  the  troubles  of  the  New 
Englanders  with  "the  Devil,  Separatists,  Familists,  Anti- 
nomians,  Quakers,  clerical  impostors,  and  Indians. "  It  is  an 
ill-digested  mass  of  personal  reminiscences,  social  gossip, 
snatches  of  conversation,  touches  of  description,  traits  of 
character  and  life,  that  help  us  to  paint  for  ourselves  some 
living  pictures  of  early  New  England. 

Jonathan  Edwards,  the  most  acute  and  original  thinker 
yet  born  in  America,  was  graduated  at  Yale  College  in  1720, 
after  a  marvellous  boyhood  of  intense  and  rigid  intellectual 
discipline.  As  a  student  at  college  and  afterwards  as  tutor 
there,  his  researches  and  discoveries  in  science  were  so  great 
that  had  he  not  preferred  theology  he  would  have  made  a 
distinguished  investigator  in  astronomy  and  physics.  He  was 
the  pastor  of  a  church  at  Northampton  until  he  was  dismissed 
on  account  of  the  strictness  of  his  discipline,  then  missionary 
to  the  Indians  near  Stockbridge,  and  in  1758  was  called  to  be 
president  of  Princeton  College.  As  a  man  Jonathan  Edwards 


12  LITERATURE  OF  AI<I<  NATIONS. 

was  simple,  meek,  spiritual,  gentle,  and  disinterested ;  as  a 
metaphysician  he  was  acute,  profound,  and  remorselessly  log- 
ical ;  as  a  theologian  he  was  the  massive  champion  of  John 
Calvin  and  all  the  rigors  of  his  creed. 

There  were  many  distinguished  names  in  the  various  colo- 
nies during  the  second  period— governors,  divines,  lawyers, 
professors,  physicians,  and  college  presidents.  There  were  also 
forty-three  newspapers  and  magazines  in  Philadelphia,  Boston, 
and  New  York,  together  with  the  necessary  and  utilitarian 
almanac.  But  the  only  really  renowned  authors  were  Cotton 
Mather  and  Jonathan  Edwards,  and  they  contributed  to 
ecclesiastical  history  and  theology  rather  than  to  literature. 
Benjamin  Franklin,  whose  literary  work  began  in  this  period, 
became  yet  more  distinguished  in  the  next,  and  is  reserved 
for  later  treatment.  But  colonial  history,  as  reproduced  in 
letters,  diaries,  and  state  and  family  records,  and  in  Mather's 
book,  has  been  the  great  storehouse  from  which  Hawthorne, 
Whittier,  and  Longfellow  drew  the  materials  for  their  familiar 
romances,  tales,  or  verse,  and  has  thus  formed  the  sturdy 
foundations  of  a  purely  American  literature. 

CAPTAIN  JOHN  SMITH. 

No  name  is  more  indelibly  impressed  on  the  early  history 
of  Virginia  than  that  of  the  adventurous  Captain  John  Smith 
(1580-1631).  He  was  a  redoubtable  warrior  and  experienced 
navigator,  who  has  told  his  own  story  in  such  a  way  as  to 
excite  some  doubts  as  to  its  truth.  After  abundance  of  ad- 
ventures in  the  Hast  of  Europe,  he  took  part  in  the  English 
attempt  to  colonize  Virginia.  In  exploring  the  country  he 
was  captured  by  the  Indians,  and,  as  he  asserted,  was  saved 
by  the  intercession  of  Pocahontas.  He  was  made  president  of 
the  colony  of  Jamestown,  but  in  1609  was  obliged  to  return  to 
England,  having  been  disabled  by  an  explosion  of  gunpowder. 
Yet  he  afterwards  resumed  his  explorations  and  was  made 
Admiral  of  New  England.  Finally  he  settled  down  in  his 
native  land  and  wrote  a  number  of  books  describing  Virginia 
and  New  England,  and  reciting  his  own  history.  This  humble 
successor  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  is  favorably  mentioned  by 
Fuller  among  the  worthies  of  England. 


AMERICAN  WTBRATURE.  13 


CAPTAIN  JOHN  SMITH'S  CAPTIVITY. 

SMITH'S  "General  History  of  Virginia,  New  England  and  the 
Summer  Isles"  (1624),  gives  an  account  of  voyages,  discoveries  and 
settlements  from  1584  to  1624.  Book  III.,  which  was  edited  by  the 
Rev.  W.  Simmonds,  D.D.,  from  Smith's  account,  gives  the  following 
narrative.  The  spelling  is  here  modernized  except  in  proper  names. 

But  our  comedies  never  endured  long  without  a  tragedy  ; 
some  idle  exceptions  being  muttered  against  Captain  Smith 
for  not  discovering  the  head  of  Chickahamania  River,  and 
being  taxed  by  the  Council  [of  the  Virginia  Company]  to  be 
too  slow  in  so  worthy  an  attempt.  The  next  voyage  he  pro- 
ceeded so  far  that  with  much  labor  by  cutting  of  trees  asunder 
he  made  his  passage ;  but  when  his  barge  could  pass  no 
farther,  he  left  her  in  a  broad  bay,  out  of  danger  of  shot,  com- 
manding none  should  go  ashore  till  his  return:  himself  with 
two  English  and  two  savages  went  up  higher  in  a  canoe  ;  but 
he  was  not  long  absent,  but  his  men  went  ashore,  whose  want 
of  government  gave  both  occasion  and  opportunity  to  the 
savages  to  surprise  one  George  Cassen,  whom  they  slew,  and 
much  failed  not  to  have  cut  off  the  boat  and  all  the  rest. 

Smith,  little  dreaming  of  that  accident,  being  got  to  the 
marshes  at  the  river's  head,  twenty  miles  in  the  desert,  had 
his  two  men  slain  (as  is  supposed)  sleeping  by  the  canoe, 
whilst  himself  by  fowling  sought  them  victual :  who  finding 
he  was  beset  with  two  hundred  savages,  two  of  them  he  slew, 
still  defending  himself  with  the  aid  of  a  savage,  his  guide, 
whom  he  bound  to  his  arm  with  his  garters,  and  used  him  as 
a  buckler,  yet  he  was  shot  in  his  thigh  a  little,  and  had  many 
arrows  that  stuck  in  his  clothes,  but  no  great  hurt,  till  at  last 
they  took  him  prisoner. 

When  this  news  came  to  Jamestown,  much  was  their 
sorrow  for  his  loss,  few  expecting  what  ensued. 

Six  or  seven  weeks  those  barbarians  kept  him  prisoner, 
many  strange  triumphs  and  conjurations  they  made  of  him, 
yet  he  so  demeaned  himself  amongst  them,  as  he  not  only 
diverted  them  from  surprising  the  Fort,  but  procured  his  own 
liberty,  and  got  himself  and  his  company  such  estimation 


14  UTERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

amongst  them,  that  those  savages  admired  him  more  than 
their  own  Quiyouckosucks. 

At  last  they  brought  him  to  Meronocomoco,  where  was 
Powhatan  their  Emperor.  Here  more  than  two  hundred  of 
those  grim  courtiers  stood  wondering  at  him,  as  he  had  been 
a  monster ;  till  Powhatan  and  his  train  had  put  themselves 
in  their  greatest  braveries.  Before  a  fire  upon  a  seat  like  a 
bedstead,  he  sat  covered  with  a  great  robe,  made  of  rarowcun 
[raccoon]  skins,  and  all  the  tails  hanging  by.  On  either 
hand  did  sit  a  young  wench  of  sixteen  or  eighteen  years,  and 
along  on  each  side  the  house,  two  rows  of  men,  and  behind 
them  as  many  women,  with  all  their  heads  and  shoulders 
painted  red :  many  of  their  heads  bedecked  with  the  white 
down  of  birds  ;  but  every  one  with  something :  and  a  great 
chain  of  white  beads  about  their  necks. 

At  his  entrance  before  the  king,  all  the  people  gave  a 
great  shout.  The  Queen  of  Appamatuck  was  appointed  to 
bring  him  water  to  wash  his  hands,  and  another  brought  him 
a  bunch  of  feathers,  instead  of  a  towel,  to  dry  them  :  having 
feasted  him  after  their  best  barbarous  manner  they  could,  a 
long  consultation  was  held,  but  the  conclusion  was,  two  great 
stones  were  brought  before  Powhatan :  then  as  many  as  could 
laid  hands  on  him,  dragged  him  to  them,  and  thereon  laid  his 
head,  and  being  ready  with  their  clubs,  to  beat  out  his  brains, 
Pocahontas,  the  King's  dearest  daughter,  when  no  entreaty 
could  prevail,  got  his  head  in  her  arms,  and  laid  her  own 
upon  his  to  save  him  from  death  :  whereat  the  Emperor  was 
contented  he  should  live  to  make  him  hatchets,  and  her  bells, 
beads  and  copper ;  for  they  thought  him  as  well  of  all  occupa- 
tions as  themselves.  For  the  King  himself  will  make  his  own 
robes,  shoes,  bows,  arrows,  pots ;  plant,  hunt,  or  do  anything 
so  well  as  the  rest. 

They  say  he  bore  a  pleasant  show, 

But  sure  his  heart  was  sad, 
For  who  can  pleasant  be,  and  rest, 

That  lives  in  fear  and  dread  : 
And  having  life  suspected,  doth 

It  still  suspected  lead  ? 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  15 

Two  days  after,  Powhatan  having  disguised  himself  in 
the  most  fearfullest  manner  he  could,  caused  Captain  Smith 
to  be  brought  forth  to  a  great  house  in  the  woods,  and  there 
upon  a  mat  by  the  fire  to  be  left  alone.  Not  long  after  from 
behind  a  mat  that  divided  the  house,  was  made  the  most 
dolefullest  noise  he  ever  heard ;  then  Powhatan  more  like  a 
devil  than  a  man,  with  some  two  hundred  more  as  black  as 
himself,  came  unto  him  and  told  him  now  they  were  friends, 
and  presently  he  should  go  to  Jamestown,  to  send  him  two 
great  guns,  and  a  grindstone,  for  which  he  would  give  him 
the  country  of  Capahowosick,  and  forever  esteem  him  as  his 
son  Nantaquoud. 

So  to  Jamestown,  with  twelve  guides,  Powhatan  sent  him. 
That  night  they  quartered  in  the  woods,  he  still  expecting 
(as  he  had  done  all  this  long  time  of  his  imprisonment)  every 
hour  to  be  put  to  one  death  or  other :  for  all  their  feasting. 
But  Almighty  God  (by  his  divine  providence)  had  mollified 
the  hearts  of  those  stern  barbarians  with  compassion.  The 
next  morning  betimes  they  came  to  the  Fort,  where  Smith 
having  used  the  savages  with  what  kindness  he  could,  he 
showed  Rawhunt,  Powhatan' s  trusty  servant,  two  demi-cul- 
verins  and  a  millstone  to  carry  [to]  Powhatan :  they  found 
them  somewhat  too  heavy ;  but  when  they  did  see  him  dis- 
charge them,  being  loaded  with  stones,  among  the  boughs  of 
a  great  tree  loaded  with  icicles,  the  ice  and  branches  came  so 
tumbling  down,  that  the  poor  savages  ran  away  half  dead 
with  fear.  But  at  last  we  regained  some  conference  with 
them,  and  gave  them  such  toys  ;  and  sent  to  Powhatan,  his 
women,  and  children  such  presents,  as  gave  them  in  general 
full  content. 

NEW  ENGLAND. 

REV.  WILLIAM  MORELL,  an  English  clergyman,  spent  a  year  or 
two  (1623)  at  Plymouth,  and  after  his  return  wrote  a  Latin  poem 
"Nova  Anglia,"  to  which  he  added  an  English  version.  The  opening 
contains  the  following  passage : 

Fear  not,  poor  Muse,  'cause  first  to  sing  her  fame 
That's  yet  scarce  known,  unless  by  map  or  name  ; 
A  grandchild  to  earth's  Paradise  is  born, 
Well  limb'd,  well  nerv'd,  fair,  rich,  sweet,  yet  forlorn. 


X6  LITERATURE   OF  AIJ,  NATIONS. 

Thou  blest  director,  so  direct  my  verse 
That  it  may  win  her  people  friends'  commerce. 
Whilst  her  sweet  air,  rich  soil,  blest  seas,  my  pen 
Shall  blaze,  and  tell  the  natures  of  her  men. 
New  England,  happy  in  her  new,  true  style, 
Weary  of  her  cause  she's  to  sad  exile 
Kxposed  by  hers  unworthy  of  her  land  ; 
Entreats  with  tears  Great  Britain  to  command 
Her  empire,  and  to  make  her  know  the  time, 
Whose  act  and  knowledge  only  makes  divine. 
A  royal  work  well  worthy  England's  king, 
These  natives  to  true  truth  and  grace  to  bring ; 
A  noble  work  for  all  these  noble  peers, 
Which  guide  this  State  in  their  superior  spheres. 
You  holy  Aarons,  let  your  censers  ne'er 

Cease  burning  till  these  men  Jehovah  fear. 

/ 

MRS.  ANNE  BRADSTREET. 

AMONG  the  earliest  and  therefore  most  honored  verse- 
writers  of  New  England  was  Mrs.  Anne  Bradstreet  (1612- 
1672).  She  was  the  daughter  of  Governor  Thomas  Dudley, 
and  her  husband,  Simon  Bradstreet,  also  became  Governor  of 
Massachusetts.  When  her  poems  were  printed  in  London 
in  1650,  the  publishers  prefixed  the  title,  "The  Tenth  Muse, 
lately  sprung  tip  in  America."  They  were  didactic  and  medi- 
tative, treating  of  the  Four  Elements,  the  Seasons  of  the  Year, 
and  ended  with  a  political  dialogue  between  Old  and  New 
England.  An  enlarged  edition,  published  at  Boston  in  1678, 
was  superior  to  the  first  in  literary  merit.  Mrs.  Bradstreet 
was  the  mother  of  eight  children,  whom  she  commemorated 
in  these  homely  lines : 

>  kaa  efgnt  birds  hatcht  in  the  nest ; 
Four  cocks  there  were,  and  hens  the  rest. 
I  nurst  them  up  with  pains  and  care, 
Nor  cost  nor  labor  did  I  spare  ; 
Till  at  the  last  they  felt  their  wing, 
Mounted  the  trees,  and  learnt  to  sing. 


AMERICAN   LITERATURE. 


A   LOVE-L,ETTER  TO  HER  HUSBAND. 

PHCEBUS,  make  haste,  the  day's  too  long,  begone, 
The  silent  night's  the  fittest  time  for  moan, 
But  stay  this  once,  unto  my  suit  give  ear, 
And  tell  my  griefs  in  either  Hemisphere : 
(And  if  the  whirling  of  thy  wheels  don't  drownd 
The  woful  accents  of  my  doleful  sound). 
If  in  thy  swift  career  thou  canst  make  stay, 
I  crave  this  boon,  this  errand  by  the  way : 
Commend  me  to  the  man  more  loved  than  life, 
Show  him  the  sorrows  of  his  widow' d  wife, 


My  dumpish  thoughts,  my  groans,  my  brackish  tears, 

My  sobs,  my  longing  hopes,  my  doubting  fears, 

And,  if  he  love,  how  can  he  there  abide  ? 

My  interest's  more  than  all  the  world  beside. 

He  that  can  tell  the  stars  or  ocean  sand, 

Or  all  the  grass  that  in  the  meads  do  stand, 

The  leaves  in  the  woods,  the  hail  or  drops  of  rain, 

Or  in  a  cornfield  number  every  grain, 

Or  every  mote  that  in  the  sunshine  hops, 

May  count  my  sighs  and  number  all  my  drops. 

Tell  him,  the  countless  steps  that  thou  dost  trace, 

That  once  a  day  thy  spouse  thou  may'st  embrace; 

And  when  thou  canst  not  treat  by  loving  mouth, 

Thy  rays  afar  salute  her  from  the  south. 


1 8  UTERATURE  OF  AM,  NATIONS. 

But  for  one  month  I  see  no  day  (poor  soul), 

I^ike  those  far  situate  under  the  pole. 

Which  day  by  day  long  wait  for  thy  arise, 

Oh,  how  they  joy  when  thou  dost  light  the  skies! 

O  Phoebus,  hadst  thou  but  thus  long  from  thine 

Restrained  the  beams  of  thy  beloved  shrine, 

At  thy  return,  if  so  thou  couldst  or  durst, 

Behold  a  Chaos  blacker  than  the  first. 

Tell  him  here's  worse  than  a  confused  matter, 

His  little  world's  a  fathom  under  water, 

Nought  but  the  fervor  of  his  ardent  beams, 

Hath  power  to  dry  the  torrent  of  these  streams. 

Tell  him  I  would  say  more,  but  cannot  well, 

Oppressed  minds  abrupted  tales  do  tell. 

Now  post  with  double  speed,  mark  what  I  say, 

By  all  our  loves  conjure  him  not  to  stay. 

MICHAEL  WIGGLESWORTH. 

THIS  "little  feeble  shadow  of  a  man"  was  the  pastor  of  Meldon 
for  about  fifty  years,  though  occasionally  obliged  by  physical  weakness 
to  suspend  preaching.  He  died  in  1705,  aged  seventy-four.  His  poem 
"The  Day  of  Doom,"  describing  the  last  judgment,  remains  a  monu- 
ment of  the  severest  Puritanical  theology.  Another  of  his  poems 
"Meat  out  of  the  Eater,"  is  a  series  of  meditations  on  afflictions  as 
useful  to  Christians.  The  following  verses  are  given  as  an  appendix 
to  the  former  poem. 

A  SONG  QF  EMPTINESS. — VANITY  OF  VANITIES. 

Vain,  frail,  short-lived,  and  miserable  man, 
I^earn  what  thou  art,  when  thy  estate  is  best, 

A  restless  wave  o'  th'  troubled  ocean, 
A  dream,  a  lifeless  picture  finely  dressed. 

A  wind,  a  flower,  a  vapor  and  a  bubble, 

A  wheel  that  stands  not  still,  a  trembling  reed, 

A  trolling  stone,  dry  dust,  light  chaff  and  stuff, 
A  shadow  of  something,  but  truly  nought  indeed. 

I^earn  what  deceitful  toys,  and  empty  things, 
This  world  and  all  its  best  enjoyments  be : 

Out  of  the  earth  no  true  contentment  springs, 
But  all  things  here  are  vexing  vanity. 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  19 

For  what  is  beauty  but  a  fading  flower, 

Or  what  is  pleasure  but  the  devil's  bait, 
Whereby  he  catcheth  whom  he  would  devour, 

And  multitudes  of  souls  doth  ruinate  ? 

And  what  are  friends,  but  mortal  men  as  we, 
Whom  death  from  us  may  quickly  separate? 

Or  else  their  hearts  may  quite  estranged  be, 
And  all  their  love  be  turned  into  hate. 

And  what  are  riches,  to  be  doated  on  ? 

Uncertain,  fickle,  and  ensnaring  things ; 
They  draw  men's  souls  into  perdition, 

And  when  most  needed,  take  them  to  their  wings. 

Ah,  foolish  man  !  that  sets  his  heart  upon 
Such  empty  shadows,  such  wild  fowl  as  these, 

That  being  gotten  will  be  quickly  gone, 

And  whilst  they  stay  increase  but  his  disease. 


COTTON  MATHER. 

No  family  was  more  prominent  in  the  ecclesiastical  history 
of  New  England  than  that  of  the  Mathers.  The  non-con- 
formist minister,  Richard  Mather,  emigrated  to  Massachusetts 
in  1635.  His  son,  Increase  Mather,  for  a  time  resided  in 
England,  but  returned  to  America  and  was  made  pastor  of  the 
North  Church,  Boston.  He  was  also  president  of  Harvard 
College  and  obtained  from  William  III.  a  new  charter  for  the 
colony.  Still  more  famous  was  his  son  Cotton  Mather  (1663- 
1728),  noted  for  his  learning,  industry  and  piety,  yet  full  of 
vanity.  His  fluency  in  writing  was  shown  in  the  production 
of  nearly  four  hundred  books.  But  his  fatal  delusion  about 
witchcraft  has  affixed  an  indelible  stigma  on  his  name.  He 
had  written  "Memorable  Providences  relating  to  Witchcraft " 
in  1685,  and  when  the  mania  broke  out  in  Salem  in  1692  he 
eagerly  promoted  the  agitation,  and  wrote  his  "Wonders  of 
the  Invisible  World,"  which  was  controverted  by  Robert 
Calef 's  "  More  Wonders  of  the  Invisible  World,"  published 
in  London  in  1700.  When  the  witch-hunting  epidemic 
had  passed  away,  it  was  found  that  Mather's  reputation  had 


20  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

suffered.  He  was  unable  to  obtain  the  object  of  his  ambition, 
the  presidency  of  Harvard.  His  chief  work,  the  ecclesiastical 
history  of  New  England,  which  he  called  "  Magnalia  Christi 
Americana  "  ("The  Great  Doings  of  Christ  in  America  "),  is 
a  crude  undigested  mass  of  materials  rather  than  a  history, 
for  he  had  no  sense  of  proportion.  Franklin  commended  his 
"  Essays  to  do  Good."  Mather  was  the  first  American  to  be 
elected  a  member  of  the  Royal  Society  of  L,ondon. 

THE  I/IFE  OF  MR.  RALPH  PARTRIDGE. 

(From  the  "  Magnalia.") 

WHEN  David  was  driven  from  his  friends  into  the  wilder- 
ness, he  made  this  pathetical  representation  of  his  condition, 
"  'Twas  as  when  one  doth  hunt  a  partridge  in  the  mountains." 
Among  the  many  worthy  persons  who  were  persecuted  into 
an  American  wilderness  for  their  fidelity  to  the  ecclesiastical 
kingdom  of  our  true  David,  there  was  one  that  bore  the  name 
as  well  as  the  state  of  a  hunted  partridge.  What  befel  him, 
was,  as  Bede  saith  of  what  was  done  by  Fselix,  Juxta  nominis 
sui  sacramentum  [according  to  the  sacred  obligation  of  his 
name.] 

This  was  Mr.  Ralph  Partridge,  who  for  no  fault  but  the 
delicacy  of  his  good  spirit,  being  distressed  by  the  ecclesias- 
tical setters,  had  no  defence,  neither  of  beak  nor  claw,  but  a 
flight  over  the  ocean. 

The  place  where  he  took  covert  was  the  colony  of  Ply- 
mouth, and  the  town  of  Duxbury  in  that  colony. 

This  Partridge  had  not  only  the  innocency  of  the  dove, 
conspicuous  in  his  blameless  and  pious  life,  which  made  him 
very  acceptable  in  his  conversation,  but  also  the  loftiness  of 
an  eagle,  in  the  great  soar  of  his  intellectual  abilities.  There 
are  some  interpreters  who,  understanding  church  officers  by 
the  living  creatures  in  the  fourth  chapter  of  the  Apocalypse, 
will  have  the  teacher  to  be  intended  by  the  eagle  there,  for  his 
quick  insight  into  remote  and  hidden  things.  The  church 
of  Duxbury  had  such  an  eagle  in  their  Partridge,  when  they 
enjoyed  such  a  teacher. 

By  the  same  token,  when  the  Platform  of  Church  Disci- 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  21 

pline  was  to  be  composed,  the  Synod  at  Cambridge  appointed 
three  persons  to  draw  up  each  of  them,  "  a  model  of  church- 
government,  according  to  the  word  of  God,"  unto  the  end 
that  out  of  those  the  synod  might  form  what  should  be  found 
most  agreeable ;  which  three  persons  were  Mr.  Cotton  and 
Mr.  Mather  and  Mr.  Partridge.  So  that,  in  the  opinion  of 
that  reverend  assembly,  this  person  did  not  come  far  behind 
the  first  two  for  some  of  his  accomplishments. 

After  he  had  been  forty  years  a  faithful  and  painful  preacher 
of  the  gospel,  rarely,  if  ever,  in  all  that  while  interrupted  in 
his  work  by  any  bodily  sickness,  he  died  in  a  good  old  age, 
about  the  year  1658. 

There  was  one  singular  instance  of  a  weaned  spirit,  whereby 
he  signalized  himself  unto  the  churches  of  God.  That  was 
this  :  there  was  a  time  when  most  of  the  ministers  in  the  col- 
ony of  Plymouth  left  the  colony,  upon  the  discouragement 
which  the  want  of  a  competent  maintenance  among  the  needy 
and  froward  inhabitants  gave  unto  them.  Nevertheless  Mr. 
Partridge  was,  notwithstanding  the  paucity  and  the  poverty 
of  his  congregation,  so  afraid  of  being  anything  that  looked 
like  a  bird  wandering  from  his  nest,  that  he  remained  with 
his  poor  people  till  he  took  wing  to  become  a  bird  of  paradise, 
along  with  the  winged  seraphim  of  heaven. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  His  SON. 

(The  motto  inscribed  on  his  gravestone,  "Reserved  for  a  glorious 
Resurrection.") 

THE  exhortation  of  the  Lord 

With  consolation  speaks  to  us, 
As  to  his  children,  his  good  word 

We  must  remember,  speaking  thus : 

My  child,  when  God  shall  chasten  thee, 
His  chastening  do  thou  not  contemn : 

When  thou  his  just  rebukes  dost  see, 
Faint  not  rebuked  under  them. 

The  Lord  with  fit  afflictions  will 

Correct  the  children  of  his  love ; 
He  doth  himself  their  father  still 

By  his  most  wise  corrections  prove. 


22  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

Afflictions  for  the  present  here 
The  vexed  flesh  will  grievous  call, 

But  afterwards  there  will  appear, 
Not  grief,  but  peace,  the  end  of  all. 


BISHOP  GEORGE  BERKELEY. 

AMERICA  is  indebted  to  Bishop  Berkeley  (1684-1753),  not 
only  for  his  gracious  prophecy  of  her  future  importance,  but 
for  what  he  tried  to  do  to  bring  about  its  fulfillment,  though 
his  residence  in  America  did  not  last  three  years.  George 
Berkeley,  born  near  Kilkenny,  Ireland,  and  educated  at 
Trinity  College,  Dublin,  early  manifested  a  strong  predilection 
for  metaphysical  speculation.  His  opposition  to  philosophic 
materialism  led  him  to  use  arguments  so  subtle  that  he  was 
popularly  supposed  to  deny  the  existence  of  matter.  But  his 
aim  was  rather  to  establish  the  doctrine  that  a  continual  ex- 
ercise of  creative  power  is  implied  in  the  world  presented  to 
the  senses.  His  views  were  set  forth  in  a  "  Treatise  on  the 
Principles  of  Human  Knowledge  "  (1710),  and  in  "  Dialogues 
between  Hylas  and  Philonous"  (1713).  After  publishing 
these  works  Berkeley  went  to  I/ondon,  where  he  enjoyed  the 
society  of  the  wits  who  gave  literary  fame  to  the  reign  of  Queen 
Anne.  Then  he  spent  some  years  in  travel  on  the  Continent. 
After  his  return  to  Ireland  he  was  made  Dean  of  Deny,  and 
married  the  daughter  of  the  Speaker  of  the  Irish  House  of 
Commons.  Having  received  a  bequest  of  nearly  ^4000  from 
Miss  Vanhomrigh,  Dean  Swift's  "Vanessa,"  he  offered  to 
devote  his  talents  and  fortune  to  the  promotion  of  education 
in  America.  Relying  on  the  promises  of  the  king  and  his 
ministers,  he  crossed  the  ocean  to  found  a  college  at  Newport, 
Rhode  Island.  During  his  residence  here  he  meditated  and 
composed  his  uAlciphron,  or  the  Minute  Philosopher, "  a 
dialogue  in  defence  of  religion.  Receiving  no  parliamentary 
grant,  he  was  obliged  to  return,  but  transferred  the  library  of 
880  volumes  he  had  brought  for  his  own  use  to  Yale  Col- 
lege, where  they  had  the  startling  effect  of  converting  the 
president  to  Episcopacy.  Berkeley  was  made  Bishop  of 
Cloyne  in  1734,  and  held  this  position  for  nearly  twenty 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  23 

years.  Being  subject  to  fits  of  melancholy,  he  had  recourse 
to  the  use  of  tar  water.  This  led  to  his  writing  "Siris,  a 
Chain  of  Philosophical  Reflections  and  Inquiries  concerning 
the  Virtues  of  Tar  Water."  He  died  at  Oxford,  where  he 
had  removed  six  months  before  in  order  to  be  near  his  son. 
This  learned  and  liberal  Irish  clergyman  was  most  warmly 
praised  by  his  contemporaries,  even  the  satirist  Pope  ascribing 
to  him  "every  virtue  under  heaven." 

AMERICA. 

(On  the  Prospect  of  Planting  Arts  and  Learning  in  America,  A.  D.  1732.) 

THE  Muse,  disgusted  at  an  age  and  clime 

Barren  of  every  glorious  theme, 
In  distant  lands  now  waits  a  better  time, 

Producing  subjects  worthy  fame. 

In  happy  climes,  where  from  the  genial  sun 
And  virgin  earth  such  scenes  ensue, 

The  force  of  art  by  nature  seems  outdone, 
And  fancied  beauties  by  the  true : 

In  happy  climes,  the  seat  of  innocence, 
Where  nature  guides  and  virtue  rules  ; 

Where  men  shall  not  impose  for  truth  and  sense 
The  pedantry  of  courts  and  schools, 

There  shall  be  sung  another  golden  age, 

The  rise  of  empires  and  of  arts, 
The  good  and  great,  inspiring  epic  rage, 

The  wisest  heads  and  noblest  hearts. 

Not  such  as  Europe  breeds  in  her  decay, 
Such  as  she  bred  when  fresh  and  young, 

When  heavenly  flame  did  animate  her  clay, 
By  future  poets  shall  be  sung. 

Westward  the  course  of  empire  takes  its  way ; 

The  four  first  acts  already  past, 
A  fifth  shall  close  the  drama  with  the  day — 

Time's  noblest  offspring  is  the  last. 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE. 

PERIOD  II.— THE  LITERATURE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 
1765-1800. 


'ROM  the  first  English  settlement  in  America 
problems  of  government  had  occupied  the  col- 
onists. In  the  cabin  of  the  Mayflower  the 
Pilgrim  Fathers  formed  themselves  into  a  body 
politic  by  a  solemn  compact.  In  several  of  the 
colonies  constitutions  were  framed,  which  afterwards 
served  as  models  for  those  of  the  States  and  of  the  Federal 
Government.  In  their  town  meetings,  provisional  assemblies 
and  legislatures  the  people  and  their  representatives  discussed 
the  fundamental  principles  of  government.  These  earnest 
Christians  found  in  the  Bible  directions  for  public  affairs  as 
well  as  for  private  conduct,  and  gladly  adopted  the  L,aws  of 
Moses  as  far  as  they  seemed  applicable.  In  New  England 
the  people  sympathized  with  the  Parliament  in  its  resistance 
to  the  arbitrary  exercise  of  power  by  the  Stuart  kings.  The 
same  struggle  was  repeated  on  a  smaller  scale  in  the  colonies 
when  the  assemblies  sought  to  curb  the  royal  and  proprietary 
governors. 

When  George  III.  and  his  subservient  Parliament  sought 
to  shift  part  of  the  burdens  of  the  mother  country  on  the 
colonies,  now  showing  some  degree  of  prosperity,  they  were 
amazed  at  the  steadfast  resistance  of  the  Americans,  who  had 
become  accustomed  to  regulate  their  public  affairs.  The 
colonies  had  been  drawn  closer  together  during  the  war  with 
the  French  and  Indians,  and  now  made  common  cause  against 
British  injustice.  Political  discussion  took  the  place  that  had 
24 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  25 

once  been  occupied  by  theological  controversy.  Liberty  and 
Union  were  the  favorite  themes  of  speakers  and  writers. 
They  produced  the  brilliant  oratory  of  Patrick  Henry,  the 
state  papers  of  Jefferson  and  Dickinson,  and  the  elaborate 
defence  of  the  new  constitution  by  Hamilton  and  Madison. 
Most  of  these  writings,  admirable  as  they  are  in  style  and 
valuable  as  historical  documents,  lie  outside  of  the  domain  of 
literature  proper.  But  the  progress  of  the  Revolution  was 
enlivened  by  satires  and  burlesques,  and  diversified  by  occa- 
sional poems.  The  careful  student  will  note  that  the  literary 
attempts  of  America  closely  corresponded  to  the  style  then 
prevailing  in  England,  despite  some  attempts  to  give  a  native 
smack  in  words  or  facts. 

Though  Benjamin  Franklin  was  a  conspicuous  actor  in 
the  public  events  of  this  period,  his  literary  activity  belonged 
rather  to  the  earlier  colonial  time,  yet  his  interesting  <(  Auto- 
biography "  and  his  witty  letters  were  written  during  his 
residence  in  France.  Of  the  outburst  of  oratory  which  pre- 
ceded the  Revolution  much  has  perished.  Even  the  speeches 
on  which  rest  the  fame  of  James  Otis  and  Patrick  Henry  and 
John  Adams,  were  reconstructed  by  later  writers  from  vague 
traditions.  The  "  Pennsylvania  Farmer's  Letters,"  by  John 
Dickinson,  and  the  stirring  pamphlet,  "The  Crisis,"  by 
Thomas  Paine,  stimulated  the  patriotism  of  the  colonists. 
The  satires  of  John  Trumbull  and  the  ballads  of  Francis 
Hopkinson  gave  zest  to  the  Whigs  and  threw  contempt  on 
the  Tories.  The  best  poet  of  the  period  was  the  fluent  Philip 
Freneau,  who  wrote  odes,  hymns,  satires  and  ballads.  Most 
of  these  writers  continued  to  use  the  press  after  the  national 
independence  was  acknowledged  and  the  Federal  government 
fully  established.  The  Federalist  was  a  series  of  essays  by 
Hamilton,  Madison  and  Jay,  intended  to  explain  and  com- 
mend the  proposed  Constitution  to  the  people  of  New  York 
for  ratification.  So  ably  were  they  written  that  they  have 
since  maintained  their  place  as  a  valuable  exposition  of  the 
aims  and  intentions  of  the  founders  of  the  Republic. 


BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 


THE  public  career  and  private  life  of  Benjamin  Franklin 
(1706-1790)  are  familiar  throughout  Europe  as  well  as  Amer- 
ica. The  early  part  is  charmingly  recorded  with  characteris- 
tic frankness  in  his  entertaining  ' '  Autobiography, ' '  and  later 
writers  have  taken  pleasure  in  narrating  the  whole  fully  in 
various  biographies.  This  work  is  concerned  not  with  his 
honorable  achievements  as  statesman  and  diplomatist,  nor 
with  his  public-spirited  activity  as  a  citizen,  nor  with  his  dis- 
coveries in  science  and  their  practical  applications  to  human 
convenience,  but  with  his  modest  contributions  to  literature. 

Benjamin  Franklin,  the  youngest  son  in  the  large  family 
of  a  Boston  tallow-chandler,  read  every  book  he  could  lay  his 
hands  on,  using  for  that  purpose  his  infrequent  leisure,  and 
even  his  time  of  sleep.  Early  employed  in  his  brother's 
printing-office,  he  began  to  write  for  the  press.  Subse- 
quently, in  Philadelphia,  in  his  own  paper,  The  Pennsylvania 
Gazette,  he  wrote  articles  month  after  month  and  year  after 
year,  notable  for  their  clear  and  sprightly  style,  and  their 
sentiments  of  liberality  and  good  will.  One  of  his  jocular 
efforts  is  the  "Drinker's  Dictionary,"  a  catalogue  of  slang 
words  expressive  of  intoxication,  of  which  some  sound 
strangely  modern  and  familiar,  as  rocky,  jag,  and  the  like. 

In  December,  1732,  appeared  the  first  issue  of  "The  Penn- 
sylvania Almanac,  by  Richard  Saunders,"  afterwards  known 
as  u  Poor  Richard."  It  was  full  of  humor,  from  the  announc- 
ing advertisement,  the  exquisite  fooling  of  the  annual  pre- 
face, the  statements  of  eclipses  and  forecasts  of  the  weather, 
26 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  2^ 

to  the  verses  and  proverbs,  inculcating  industry  and  economy. 
Some  of  the  wisdom  of  "Poor  Richard "  is  borrowed  from 
Bacon,  Rochefoucauld,  and  others;  but  most  of  it  is  the 
expression  of  Franklin's  own  shrewd,  homely  sense  reduced 
to  saws.  For  twenty-five  years  the  annual  sale  of  "  Poor 
Richard"  was  not  less  than  ten  thousand  copies.  It  was 
quoted  all  over  the  colonies,  reprinted  in  England,  and  trans- 
lated into  French,  Spanish,  and  even  into  modern  Greek. 

In  1741  Franklin  founded  the  first  literary  periodical  in 
America.  It  was  called  The  General  Magazine  and  Histor- 
ical Chronicle  for  all  the  British  Provinces  in  America.  It 
lasted  but  six  months,  and  is  interesting  only  as  marking  a 
new  development  in  this  country. 

When  Franklin  went  to  England  in  1757  as  agent  for  the 
colony,  he  made  use  of  the  press  as  before,  and  often  wrote 
under  an  assumed  name.  An  essay  of  his,  published  in  the 
Annual  Register,  London,  in  1760,  and  entitled,  "Extract 
from  a  Piece  written  in  Pennsylvania,"  gave  Adam  Smith 
arguments  which  he  reproduced  in  his  "  Wealth  of  Nations. n 
So  likewise  an  important  pamphlet,  entitled,  "  The  Interests 
of  Great  Britain  Considered  with  regard  to  her  Colonies  and 
the  Acquisition  of  Canada  and  Guadaloupe,"  had  considerable 
influence  on  the  policy  of  England,  and  helped  to  secure  for 
that  country  the  possession  of  Canada. 

Franklin  was  deeply  outraged  by  the  fact  that  the  English 
officers  employed  savages  during  the  progress  of  the  Revolu- 
tionary War,  and  while  in  Paris,  in  order  to  bring  the  horrors 
of  Indian  warfare  home  to  the  minds  of  the  rulers  of  England 
he  published  what  purported  to  be  the  supplement  of  a  Boston 
newspaper,  with  all  Defoe's  minuteness  of  statement.  This 
"  Extract  of  a  letter  from  Captain  Gerrish  of  the  New  Eng- 
land Militia  "  contained  an  account  of  eight  packs  of  scalps, 
taken  from  the  inhabitants  of  the  frontier  colonies,  "  cured, 
dried,  hooped,  and  painted,  with  all  the  Indian  triumphal 
marks,"  and  sent  as  a  present  to  the  Governor  of  Canada,  to 
be  by  him  transmitted  to  England.  This  hoax  was  widely 
scattered,  and  was  soon  quoted  as  a  description  of  facts. 

While  in  Paris,  too,  Franklin  wrote  to  Madame  Brillon 
his  well  known  story  of  "  Paying  too  dear  for  the  Whistle, "  and 


28  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

the  trifles— "  Ephemera,"  "  The  Petition  of  the  I^eft  Hand," 
"The  Handsome  and  Deformed  Leg,"  "  Morals  of  Chess," 
and  the  u Dialogue  between  Franklin  and  the  Gout;"  to- 
gether with  the  celebrated  u  Letter  to  Madame  Helvetius." 

Franklin  corresponded  with  the  most  learned  men  of 
his  day,  and  all  of  his  scientific  discoveries  were  communi- 
cated in  letters.  These  have  been  collected  and  published, 
together  with  his  short,  frank,  and  extremely  interesting 
"Autobiography."  When  he  left  his  father's  home,  he  aban- 
doned Puritanism  in  creed  and  conduct.  He  accepted  the 
free-thinking  tone  then  popular  in  England  as  well  as 
France,  yet  he  easily  accommodated  himself  to  the  conven- 
tionalities of  the  society  in  which  he  lived. 

Franklin's  passion  was  a  love  of  the  useful.  He  brought 
to  every  subject — the  homely  business  of  the  day,  a  scientific 
theory,  or  the  tragic  severance  of  a  nation  from  its  mother 
country — that  clear  sense  which,  stripping  every  proposition 
of  disguising  entanglements,  revealed  the  naked  ultimate 
for  all  to  see  and  pass  judgment  upon.  He  had  a  luminous 
personality  and  a  humorous  tongue.  Much  of  his  power 
arose  from  an  unfailing  courtesy  which  chose  to  persuade 
rather  than  dominate. 

Franklin's  name  was  signed  to  four  of  the  most  important 
documents  of  American  history — the  Declaration  of  Inde- 
pendence, the  Treaty  of  Alliance  with  France,  the  Treaty  of 
Peace  with  Great  Britain,  the  Federal  Constitution. 

For  fifty  years,  on  two  Continents,  social,  scientific  and 
political  thought  felt  the  impact  of  his  shrewd  and  tolerant 
spirit.  Count  Mirabeau  announced  Franklin's  death  to  the 
French  nation  in  the  following  significant  words:  "The 
genius  which  has  freed  America  and  poured  a  flood  of  light 
over  Europe,  has  returned  to  the  bosom  of  Divinity." 

POOR  RICHARD'S  ALMANAC. 

(From  his  "  Autobiography.") 

IN  1732  [at  the  age  of  twenty-seven]  I  first  published  my 
Almanac,  under  the  name  of  "Richard  Saunders."  It 
was  continued  by  me  about  twenty-five  years,  and  com- 
monly called  Poor  Richard'1  s  Almanac.  I  endeavored  to 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  29 

make  it  both  entertaining  and  useful;  and  it  accordingly 
came  to  be  in  such  demand  that  I  reaped  considerable  profit 
from  it,  vending  annually  near  ten  thousand.  And  observing 
that  it  was  generally  read — scarce  any  neighborhood  in  the 
Province  being  without  it — I  considered  it  a  proper  vehicle 
for  conveying  instruction  among  the  common  people,  who 
bought  scarcely  any  other  books.  I  therefore  filled  all  the 
little  spaces  that  occurred  between  the  remarkable  days  in 
the  Calendar  with  proverbial  sentences,  chiefly  such  as  in- 
culcated industry  and  frugality  as  the  means  of  procuring 
wealth,  and  thereby  securing  virtue;  it  being  more  difficult 
for  a  man  in  want  to  always  act  honestly,  as,  to  use  here  one 
of  those  proverbs,  "  It  is  hard  for  an  empty  sack  to  stand  up- 
right." 

These  proverbs,  which  contained  the  wisdom  of  many 
ages  and  nations,  I  assembled  and  formed  into  a  connected 
discourse  prefixed  to  the  Almanac  of  1757,  as  the  harangue  of 
a  wise  old  man  to  the  people  attending  an  auction.  The 
bringing  of  all  these  scattered  counsels  thus  into  a  focus 
enabled  them  to  make  greater  impression.  The  piece  being 
universally  approved  was  copied  in  all  the  newspapers  of  the 
American  continent,  reprinted  in  Britain  on  a  large  sheet  of 
paper  to  be  stuck  up  in  houses.  Two  translations  were  made 
of  it  in  France;  and  great  numbers  of  it  were  bought  by  the 
clergy  and  gentry,  to  distribute  gratis  among  their  poor 
parishioners  and  tenants.  In  Pennsylvania,  as  it  discouraged 
useless  expense  in  foreign  superfluities,  some  thought  it  had 
its  share  of  influence  in  producing  that  growing  plenty  of 
money  which  was  observable  several  years  after  its  publica- 
tion. 

THE  WAY  TO  WEAI/TH. 

(From  "  Poor  Richard's  Almanac.") 

COURTEOUS  reader,  I  have  heard  that  nothing  gives  an 
author  so  great  pleasure  as  to  find  his  works  respectfully 
quoted  by  others.  Judge,  then,  how  much  I  must  been  grati- 
fied by  an  incident  I  am  going  to  relate  to  you.  I  stopped 
my  horse  lately  where  a  great  number  of  people  were  col- 
lected at  an  auction  of  merchants'  goods.  The  hour  of  the 
sale  not  being  come,  they  were  conversing  on  the  badness  of 


30  MTERATURE  OF  AM,  NATIONS. 

the  times ;  and  one  of  the  company  called  to  a  plain,  clean 
old  man,  with  white  locks ; — "  Pray,  Father  Abraham,  what 
think  you  of  the  times  ?  Will  not  these  heavy  taxes  quite 
ruin  the  country?  How  shall  we  ever  be  able  to  pay  them? 
What  would  you  advise  us  to?"  Father  Abraham  stood  up 
and  replied,  "  If  you  would  have  my  advice,  I  will  give  it  you 
in  short ;  for  A  word  to  the  wise  is  enough,  as  Poor  Richard 
says."  They  joined  in  desiring  him  to  speak  his  mind,  and, 
gathering  round  him,  he  proceeded  as  follows : 

"  Friends,"  said  he,  "  the  taxes  are  indeed  very  heavy,  and, 
if  those  laid  on  by  the  government  were  the  only  ones  we  had 
to  pay,  we  might  more  easily  discharge  them ;  but  we  have 
many  others,  and  much  more  grievous  to  some  of  us.  We 
are  taxed  twice  as  much  by  our  idleness,  three  times  as  much 
by  our  pride,  and  four  times  as  much  by  our  folly;  and  from 
these  taxes  the  commissioners  cannot  ease  or  deliver  us,  by 
allowing  an  abatement.  However,  let  us  hearken  to  good 
advice,  and  something  may  be  done  for  us  ;  God  helps  them 
that  help  themselves,  as  Poor  Richard  says. 

"  It  would  be  thought  a  hard  government  that  should  tax 
its  people  one-tenth  part  of  their  time,  to  .be  employed  in  its 
service ;  but  idleness  taxes  many  of  us  much  more ;  sloth,  by 
bringing  on  diseases,  absolutely  shortens  life.  Sloth,  like  rust, 
consumes  faster  than  labor  wears;  while  the  used  key  is  always 
bright,  as  Poor  Richard  says.  But  dost  thou  love  life?  Then  do 
not  squander  time,  for  that  is  the  stuff  life  is  made  of,  as  Poor 
Richard  says.  How  much  more  than  is  necessary  do  we 
spend  in  sleep,  forgetting  that  The  sleeping  fox  catches  no 
poultry,  and  that  There  will  be  sleeping  enough  in  the  grave, 
as  Poor  Richard  says. 

"  If  time  be  of  all  things  the  most  precious,  wasting  time 
must  be,  as  Poor  Richard  says,  the  greatest  prodigality;  since, 
as  he  elsewhere  tells  us,  Lost  time  is  never  found  again;  and 
what  we  call  time  enough  always  proves  little  enough.  L,et 
us  then  up  and  be  doing,  and  doing  to  the  purpose ;  so  by 
diligence  shall  we  do  more  with  less  perplexity. 

"  But  with  our  industry  we  must  likewise  be  steady,  set- 
tled and  careful,  and  oversee  our  own  affairs,  with  our  own 
eyes,  and  not  trust  too  much  to  others ;  for,  Three  removes 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  31 

are  as  bad  as  afire ;  and  again,  Keep  thy  shop,  and  thy  shop 
will  keep  thee ;  and  again,  If  you  would  have  your  business 
done,  go;  if  not,  send. 

"  So  much  for  industry,  my  friends,  and  attention  to  one's 
own  business  ;  but  to  these  we  must  add  frugality,  if  we  would 
make  our  industry  more  certainly  successful.  A  man  may,  if 
he  knows  not  how  to  save  as  he  gets,  keep  his  nose  all  his  life 
to  the  grindstone,  and  die  not  worth  a  groat  at  last.  A  fat 
kitchen  makes  a  lean  will. 

"  Away,  then,  with  your  expensive  follies,  and  you  will 
not  then  have  so  much  cause  to  complain  of  hard  times,  heavy 
taxes,  and  chargeable  families. 

"  And  further,  What  maintains  one  vice  would  bring  up 
two  children.  You  may  think,  perhaps,  that  a  little  tea  or  a 
little  punch  now  and  then,  diet  a  little  more  costly,  clothes  a 
little  finer,  and  a  little  entertainment  now  and  then,  can  be 
no  great  matter ;  but  remember,  Many  a  little  makes  a  mickle. 
Beware  of  little  expenses :  A  small  leak  will  sink  a  great 
ship,  as  Poor  Richard  says;  and  again,  Who  dainties  love, 
shall  beggars  prove;  and  moreover,  Fools  make  feasts,  and 
wise  men  eat  them. 

"  Here  you  are  all  got  together  at  this  sale  of  fineries  and 
knickknacks.  You  call  them  goods ;  but,  if  you  do  not  take 
care,  they  will  prove  evils  to  some  of  you.  You  expect  they 
will  be  sold  cheap,  and  perhaps  they  may  for  less  than  they 
cost ;  but,  if  you  have  no  occasion  for  them,  they  must  be 
dear  to  you.  Remember  what  Poor  Richard  says :  Buy  what 
thou  hast  no  need  of,  and  ere  long  thou  shall  sell  thy  necessaries. 
And  again,  At  a  great  pennyworth  pause  a  while.  He  means, 
that  perhaps  the  cheapness  is  apparent  only,  and  not  real ;  or 
the  bargain,  by  straitening  thee  in  thy  business,  may  do  thee 
more  harm  than  good.  For  in  another  place  he  says,  Many 
have  been  ruined  by  buying  good  pennyworths.  Again,  //  is 
foolish  to  lay  out  money  in  a  purchase  of  repentance ;  and  yet 
this  folly  is  practised  every  day  at  auctions,  for  want  of  mind- 
ing the  Almanac.  Many  a  one,  for  the  sake  of  finery  on  the 
back,  have  gone  with  a  hungry  belly  and  half-starved  their 
families.  Silks  and  satins,  scarlet  and  velvets,  put  out  the 
kitchen  fire,  as  Poor  Richard  says. 


32  LITERATURE  OF  AM,  NATIONS. 

"  But  what  madness  must  it  be  to  run  in  debt  for  these 
superfluities !  We  are  offered,  by  the  terms  of  this  sale,  six 
months'  credit ;  and  that,  perhaps,  has  induced  some  of  us  to 
attend  it,  because  we  cannot  spare  the  ready  money,  and  hope 
now  to  be  fine  without  it.  But,  ah  !  think  what  you  do  when 
you  run  in  debt ;  you  give  to  another  power  over  your  liberty. 
If  you  cannot  pay  at  the  time,  you  will  be  ashamed  to  see 
your  creditor ;  you  will  be  in  fear  when  you  speak  to  him ; 
you  will  make  poor,  pitiful,  sneaking  excuses ;  and,  by  de- 
grees, come  to  lose  your  veracity,  and  sink  into  base,  down- 
right lying ;  for  The  second  vice  is  lying,  the  first  is  running 
in  debt,  as  Poor  Richard  says  ;  and  again,  to  the  same  purpose, 
Lying  rides  upon  Deb? s  back;  whereas  a  free-born  English- 
man ought  not  to  be  ashamed  nor  afraid  to  see  or  speak  to 
any  man  living.  But  poverty  often  deprives  a  man  of  all 
spirit  and  virtue.  It  is  hard  for  an  empty  bag  to  stand 
upright. 

"What  would  you  think  of  that  prince,  or  of  that  govern- 
ment, who  should  issue  an  edict  forbidding  you  to  dress  like 
a  gentleman  or  gentlewoman,  on  pain  of  imprisonment  or 
servitude  ?  Would  you  not  say  that  you  were  free,  have  a 
right  to  dress  as  you  please,  and  that  such  an  edict  would  be 
a  breach  of  your  privileges,  and  such  a  government  tyran- 
nical ?  And  yet  you  are  about  to  put  yourself  under  such 
tyranny,  when  you  run  in  debt  for  such  dress !  Your  creditor 
has  authority,  at  his  pleasure,  to  deprive  you  of  your  liberty, 
by  confining  you  in  jail  till  you  shall  be  able  to  pay  him. 
When  you  have  got  your  bargain,  you  may  perhaps  think 
little  of  payment ;  but,  as  Poor  Richard  says,  Creditors  have 
better  memories  than  debtors ;  creditors  are  a  superstitious  sect, 
great  observers  of  set  days  and  times.  The  day  comes  round 
before  you  are  aware,  and  the  demand  is  made  before  you  are 
prepared  to  satisfy  it ;  or,  if  you  bear  your  debt  in  mind,  the 
term,  which  at  first  seemed  so  long,  will,  as  it  lessens,  appear 
extremely  short.  Time  will  seem  to  have  added  wings  to  his 
heels  as  well  as  his  shoulders.  Those  have  a  short  Lent,  who 
owe  money  to  be  paid  at  Easter.  At  present,  perhaps,  you  may 
think  yourselves  in  thriving  circumstances,  and  that  you  can 
bear  a  little  extravagance  without  injury  ;  but, 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  33 

For  age  and  want  save  while  you  may ; 
No  morning  sun  lasts  a  whole  day. 

Gain  may  be  temporary  and  uncertain,  but  ever,  while  you 
live,  expense  is  constant  and  certain  ;  and  //  is  easier  to  build 
two  chimneys,  than  to  keep  one  in  fuel,  as  Poor  Richard  says; 
BO,  Rather  go  to  bed  supper  less,  than  rise  in  debt. 

* '  This  doctrine,  my  friends,  is  reason  and  wisdom ;  but, 
after  all,  do  not  depend  too  much  upon  your  own  industry, 
and  frugality,  and  prudence,  though  excellent  things ;  for 
they  may  all  be  blasted,  without  the  blessing  of  Heaven  ;  and, 
therefore,  ask  that  blessing  humbly,  and  be  not  uncharitable 
to  those  that  at  present  seem  to  want  it,  but  comfort  and  help 
them.  Remember,  Job  suffered,  and  was  afterwards  prosper- 
ous. " 

Thus  the  old  gentleman  ended  his  harangue.  I  resolved 
to  be  the  better  for  it ;  and  though  I  had  at  first  determined 
to  buy  stuff  for  a  new  coat,  I  went  away  resolved  to  wear  my 
old  one  a  little  longer.  Reader,  if  thou  wilt  do  the  same, 
thy  profit  will  be  as  great  as  mine.  I  am,  as  ever,  thine  to 
serve  thee,  RICHARD  SAUNDERS. 

TURNING  THE  GRINDSTONE. 

WHEN  I  was  a  little  boy,  I  remember,  one  cold  winter's 
morning,  I  was  accosted  by  a  smiling  man  with  an  axe  on 
his  shoulder.  "My  pretty  boy,"  said  he,  "has  your  father 
a  grindstone?"  "Yes,  sir,"  said  I.  "  You  are  a  fine  little 
fellow,"  said  he;  "will  you  let  me  grind  my  axe  on  it?" 
Pleased  with  the  compliment  of  ufine  little  fellow,"  "  Oh  yes, 
sir,"  I  answered  :  "it  is  down  in  the  shop."  "  And  will  you, 
my  man,"  said  he,  patting  me  on  the  head,  "get  me  a  little 
hot  water?  "  How  could  I  refuse?  I  ran,  and  soon  brought 
a  kettleful.  "  How  old  are  you?  and  what's  your  name?" 
continued  he,  without  waiting  for  a  reply  :  "  I  am  sure  you 
are  one  of  the  finest  lads  that  ever  I  have  seen  :  will  you  just 
turn  a  few  minutes  for  me  ?  " 

Tickled  with  the  flattery,  like  a  little  fool,  I  went  to  work, 
and  bitterly  did  I  rue  the  day.  It  was  a  new  axe,  and  I 
toiled  and  tugged  till  I  was  almost  tired  to  death.  The 

IX-— 3 


34  UTERATURE  OF  AM,  NATIONS. 

school-bell  rang,  and  I  could  not  get  away;  my  hands  were 
blistered,  and  the  axe  was  not  half  ground.  At  length,  how- 
ever, it  was  sharpened;  and  the  man  turned  to  me  with, 
"Now,  you  little  rascal,  you've  played  truant:  scud  to  the 
school,  or  you'll  buy  it!"  "  Alas!"  thought  I,  "it  is  hard 
enough  to  turn  a  grindstone  this  cold  day;  but  now  to  be 
called  a  little  rascal  is  too  much." 

It  sank  deep  in  my  mind ;  and  often  have  I  thought  of  it 
since.  When  I  see  a  merchant  over-polite  to  his  customers, 
— begging  them  to  take  a  little  brandy,  and  throwing  his 
goods  on  the  counter, — thinks  I,  That  man  has  an  axe  to 
grind.  When  I  see  a  man  flattering  the  people,  making 
great  professions  of  attachment  to  liberty,  who  is  in  private 
life  a  tyrant,  methinks,  Look  out,  good  people!  that  fellow 
would  set  you  turning  grindstones.  When  I  see  a  man 
hoisted  into  office  by  party  spirit,  without  a  single  qualifica- 
tion to  render  him  either  respectable  or  useful, — alas!  me- 
thinks, deluded  people,  you  are  doomed  for  a  season  to  turn 
the  grindstone  for  a  booby. 

LETTER  TO  MADAME  HELVETIUS. 

(Written  at  Passy.) 

MORTIFIED  at  the  barbarous  resolution  pronounced  by 
you  so  positively  yesterday  evening,  that  you  would  remain 
single  the  rest  of  your  life,  as  a  compliment  due  to  the  mem- 
ory of  your  husband,  I  retired  to  my  chamber.  Throwing 
myself  upon  my  bed,  I  dreamt  that  I  was  dead  and  was  trans- 
ported to  the  Klysian  Fields. 

I  was  asked  whether  I  wished  to  see  any  persons  in  particu- 
lar ;  to  which  I  replied,  that  I  wished  to  see  the  philosophers. 
*  *  There  are  two  who  live  here  at  hand  in  this  garden  ;  they 
are  good  neighbors,  and  very  friendly  towards  one  another." 
( ( Who  are  they  ?  "  "  Socrates  and  Helvetius."  "  I  esteem 
them  both  highly ;  but  let  me  see  Helvetius  first,  because  I 
understand  a  little  French,  but  not  a  word  of  Greek."  I  was 
conducted  to  him ;  he  received  me  with  much  courtesy,  hav- 
ing known  me,  he  said,  by  character,  some  time  past.  He 
asked  me  a  thousand  questions  relative  to  the  war,  the  present 
state  of  religion,  of  liberty,  of  the  government  in  France. 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  35 

"  You  do  not  inquire,  then,"  said  I,  "after  your  dear  friend, 
Madame  Helvetius  ;  yet  she  loves  you  exceedingly  ;  I  was  in 
her  company  not  more  than  an  hour  ago."  "  Ah,"  said  he, 
"you  make  me  recur  to  my  past  happiness,  which  ought  to 
be  forgotten  in  order  to  be  happy  here.  For  many  years  I 
could  think  of  nothing  but  her,  though  at  length  I  am  con- 
soled. I  have  taken  another  wife,  the  most  like  her  that  I 
could  find ;  she  is  not  indeed  altogether  so  handsome,  but  she 
has  a  great  fund  of  wit  and  good  sense ;  and  her  whole  study 
is  to  please  me.  She  is  at  this  moment  gone  to  fetch  the  best 
nectar  and  ambrosia  to  regale  me  ;  stay  here  awhile  and  you 
will  see  her."  " I  perceive,"  said  I,  "that  your  former  frierd 
is  more  faithful  to  you  than  you  are  to  her ;  she  has  had  sev- 
eral good  offers,  but  has  refused  them  all.  I  will  confess  to 
you  that  I  loved  her  extremely;  but  she  was  cruel  to  me,  and 
rejected  me  peremptorily  for  your  sake. "  "I  pity  you  sin- 
cerely," said  he,  "for  she  is  an  excellent  woman,  handsome 

and  amiable.    But  do  not  the  Abbe*  de  la  R and  the  Abbe 

M visit  her?"     " Certainly  they  do;  not  one  of  your 

friends  has  dropped  her  acquaintance."  "  If  you  had  gained 
the  Abbe*  M with  a  bribe  of  good  coffee  and  cream,  per- 
haps you  would  have  succeeded  ;  for  he  is  as  deep  a  reasoner 
as  Duns  Scotus  or  St.  Thomas ;  he  arranges  and  methodizes 
his  arguments  in  such  a  manner  that  they  are  almost  irresisti- 
ble. Or,  if  by  a  fine  edition  of  some  old  classic,  you  had 

gained  the  Abbe*  de  la  R to  speak  against  you,  that  would 

have  been  still  better ;  as  I  always  observed,  that  when  he 
recommended  anything  to  her,  she  had  a  great  inclination  to 
do  directly  the  contrary."  As  he  finished  these  words  the 
new  Madame  Helvetius  entered  with  the  nectar,  and  I  recog- 
nized her  immediately  as  my  former  American  friend,  Mrs. 
Franklin  !  I  reclaimed  her,  but  she  answered  me  coldly;  "  I 
was  a  good  wife  to  you  for  forty-nine  years  and  four  months, 
nearly  half  a  century;  let  that  content  you.  I  have  formed 
a  new  connection  here,  which  will  last  to  eternity." 

Indignant  at  this  refusal  of  my  Burydice,  I  immediately 
resolved  to  quit  those  ungrateful  shades,  and  return  to  this 
good  world  again,  to  behold  the  sun  and  you  !  Here  I  am  ; 
let  us  avenge  ourselves! 


JOHN  TRUMBUIvL. 


JOHN  TRUMBULI,  (1750-1831),  born  at 
Waterbury,  Conn.,  was  one  of  the 
three  Whig  satirists  of  the  American 
Revolution.  The  first  two  cantos  of  his  burlesque  epic  poem, 
"McFingal,"  appeared  in  January,  1776,  and  served  as  one  of 
the  inspiring  forces  of  that  struggle  of  national  birth.  Pro- 
fessor Moses  Coit  Tyler  styles  this  epic  uone  of  the  world's 
masterpieces  in  political  badinage,"  and  remarks  of  it :  uThe 
verse  of  ( McFingal '  is  obviously  the  verse  which  since  But- 
ler's time  has  been  called  Hudibrastic;  that  is,  the  rhymed 
iambic  tetrameters  of  the  earlier  English  poets,  depraved  to  the 
droll  uses  of  burlesque  by  the  Butlerian  peculiarities,  to  wit : 
the  clipping  of  words,  the  suppression  of  syllables,  colloquial 
jargon,  a  certain  rapid,  ridiculous,  jig-like  movement  and  the 
jingle  of  unexpected,  fantastic,  and  often  imperfect  rhymes. 
Furthermore,  in  many  places  Trumbull  has  so  perfectly 
caught  the  manner  of  Butler  that  he  easily  passes  for  him 
in  quotation.  .  .  .  Beyond  these  aspects  of  resemblance,  it  is 
doubtful  whether  the  relation  of  ( McFingal '  to  ( Hudibras ' 
be  not  rather  one  of  contrast  than  of  imitation.  The  hero  of 
the  one  poem  is  a  pedantic  Puritan  radical  of  the  time  of 
Oliver  Cromwell ;  the  hero  of  the  other  is  a  garrulous  and 
preposterous  High-Church  Scottish- American  Conservative  of 
the  time  of  George  the  Third."  Professor  Tyler  sees  a  much 
closer  intellectual  kinship  existing  between  Trumbull  and 
Charles  Churchill,  his  English  contemporary,  than  between 
Trumbull  and  Butler. 

Trumbull  was  an  infant  prodigy,  and  had  passed  his  Greek 
and  I/atin  examinations  for  Yale  College  at  the  age  of  seven. 
He  early  displayed  a  gift  for  ridicule  and  satire,  and  in 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  37 

"The  Owl  and  the  Sparrow "  (1772),  a  fable  after  Butler, 
he  first  used  that  Hudibrastic  verse  which  afterwards  became 
his  favorite  weapon.  Professor  Tyler  pronounces  his  "  Ode 
to  Sleep  "  (1773),  to  have  been  "a  nearer  approach  to  genuine 
poetry  than  had  then  been  achieved  by  any  American,  except- 
ing Freneau. 

In  August,  1775,  Trumbull  penned  a  burlesque  on  General 
Gage's  proclamation.  Much  of  this  sarcasm  concerning  the 
rhetorical  general  survives  in  "McFingal."  The  first  canto 
of  the  mock  epic  describes  a  typical  New  England  town- 
meeting,  held  by  excited  citizens  just  after  the  massacres  of 
Lexington  and  Concord.  Honorius  (in  whom  Trumbull  por- 
trayed John  Adams,  in  whose  office  he  was  studying  law) 
makes  an  impassioned  patriotic  speech,  whereupon  Squire 
McFingal  interrupts  him  with  a  bigoted  Tory  harangue,  in 
which  he  shows  that  the  Tories  are  after  titles  and  other 
rewards  of  self-interest  in  their  allegiance  to  Parliament  and 
the  King.  Honorius,  however,  denounces  Gage  as  "  the 
bailiff  and  the  hangman,'*  the  Tories  finally  try  to  down  him 
by  hoots  and  catcalls,  and  the  mob  outside  at  last  break  in  to 
the  utter  rout  of  the  town-meeting. 

It  was  not  until  1782,  after  the  surrender  of  Cornwallis, 
that  Trumbull  finished  this  epic  by  its  extension  to  four  cantos 
— about  fifteen  hundred  lines  in  all.  In  the  added  cantos, 
McFingal,  the  bold  Tory  squire,  is  tarred  and  feathered  and 
glued  to  a  liberty-pole,  after  being  baited  by  the  mob.  He 
escapes  to  his  cellar,  where  he  and  his  fellow-tories  hold  a  clan- 
destine council  of  war.  The  crestfallen  McFingal,  in  one  of 
his  characteristic  fits  of  prophecy,  predicts  the  woe  that  is  to 
come  to  the  Tories,  and  he  has  hardly  finished  when  a  bat- 
talion of  Whigs  is  heard  approaching.  The  desperate  Tories 
hide  in  every  ridiculous  place,  but  McFingal  makes  good  his 
escape  through  the  cellar^ window  to  Boston  and  his  beloved 
Gage.  The  wit  and  vigor  of  this  latter  portion  excels  that 
of  the  original  canto  of  the  town-meeting.  As  an  instance 
of  Trumbull' s  Hudibrastic  vein  may  be  quoted  the  following 
couplet  often  improperly  accredited  : 

."  No  man  e'er  felt  the  halter  draw, 
With  good  opinion  of  the  law." 


38  LITERATURE  OF  AM,  NATIONS. 

Trumbull  distinguished  himself  as  a  lawyer,  and  rose  to 
the  distinction  of  judgeship.  "McFingal"  is  a  monument 
to  his  varied  learning  as  well  as  to  his  wit. 

THE  TOWN-MEETING,  p.  M. 

(From  "M'Fingal,"  Canto  II.) 

THE  Sun,  who  never  stops  to  dine, 
Two  hours  had  pass'd  the  midway  line, 
And  driving  at  his  usual  rate, 
Lash'd  on  his  downward  car  of  state. 
And  now  expired  the  short  vacation, 
And  dinner  done  in  epic  fashion  ; 
While  all  the  crew  beneath  the  trees 
Eat  pocket-pies,  or  bread  and  cheese ; 
Nor  shall  we,  like  old  Homer,  care 
To  versify  their  bill  of  fare. 
For  now  each  party,  feasted  well, 
Throng' d  in,  like  sheep,  at  sound  of  bell, 
With  equal  spirit  took  their  places ; 
And  meeting  oped  with  three  Oh-yesses ; 
When  first  the  daring  Whigs  t'  oppose, 
Again  the  great  M'Fingal  rose, 
Stretch' d  magisterial  arm  amain, 
And  thus  assum'd  th'  accusing  strain : — 

' '  Ye  Whigs,  attend,  and  hear  affrighted 
The  crimes  whereof  ye  stand  indicted, 
The  sins  and  follies  past  all  compass, 
That  prove  you  guilty  or  non  compos. 
I  leave  the  verdict  to  your  senses, 
And  jury  of  your  consciences ; 
Which,  tho'  they're  neither  good  nor  true, 
Must  yet  convict  you  and  your  crew. 
Ungrateful  sons !  a  factious  band, 
That  rise  against  your  parent-land ! 
Ye  viper* d  race,  that  burst  in  strife 
The  welcome  womb  that  gave  your  life, 
Tear  with  sharp  fangs  and  forked  tongue 
Th'  indulgent  bowels,  whence  you  sprung ; 
And  scorn  the  debt  of  obligation 
You  justly  owe  the  British  nation, 


AMERICAN  UTKRATURE.  39 

Which  since  you  cannot  pay,  your  crew 
Affect  to  swear  'twas  never  due. 
Did  not  the  deeds  of  England's  Primate 
First  drive  your  fathers  to  this  climate, 
Whom  jails  and  fines  and  ev'ry  ill 
Forc'd  to  their  good  against  their  will? 
Ye  owe  to  their  obliging  temper 
The  peopling  your  new-fangled  empire, 
While  ev'ry  British  rule  and  canon 
Stood  forth  your  causa  sine  qua  non. 
Did  they  not  send  you  charters  o'er, 
And  give  you  lands  you  own'd  before, 
Permit  you  all  to  spill  your  blood, 
And  drive  out  heathen  where  you  could, 
On  these  mild  terms,  that,  conquest  won, 
The  realm  you  gain'd  should  be  their  own. 
Or  when  of  late  attack' d  by  those, 
Whom  her  connection  made  your  foes, 
Did  they  not  then,  distrest  in  war, 
Send  Gen'rals  to  your  help  from  far, 
Whose  aid  you  own'd  in  terms  less  haughty 
And  thankfully  o'erpaid  your  quota? 
Say,  at  what  period  did  they  grudge 
To  send  you  Governor  or  Judge, 
With  all  their  missionary  crew, 
To  teach  you  law  and  gospel  too  ? 
Brought  o'er  all  felons  in  the  nation, 
To  help  you  on  in  population ; 
Propos'd  their  Bishops  to  surrender, 
And  made  their  Priests  a  legal  tender, 
Who  only  ask'd,  in  surplice  clad, 
The  simple  tythe  of  all  you  had  : 
And  now  to  keep  all  knaves  in  awe, 
Have  sent  their  troops  t'  establish  law, 
And  with  gunpowder,  fire  and  ball, 
Reform  your  people,  one  and  all. 

Yet  when  their  insolence  and  pride 
Have  anger' d  all  the  world  beside, 
When  fear  and  want  at  once  invade, 
Can  you  refuse  to  lend  them  aid ; 
And  rather  risque  your  heads  in  fight, 


40  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

Than  gratefully  throw  in  your  mite? 

Can  they  for  debts  make  satisfaction, 

Should  they  dispose  their  realm  by  auction, 

And  sell  off  Britain's  goods  and  land  all 

To  France  and  Spain  by  inch  of  candle  ? 

Shall  good  King  George,  with  want  opprest, 

Insert  his  name  in  bankrupt  list, 

And  shut  up  shop,  like  failing  merchant, 

That  fears  the  bailiffs  should  make  search  in't ; 

With  poverty  shall  princes  strive, 

And  nobles  lack  whereon  to  live  ? 

Have  they  not  rack'd  their  whole  inventions, 

To  feed  their  brats  on  posts  and  pensions, 

Made  ev'n  Scotch  friends  with  taxes  groan, 

And  pick'd  poor  Ireland  to  the  bone  ; 

Yet  have  on  hand  as  well  deserving, 

Ten  thousand  bastards  left  for  starving  ? 

And  can  you  now  with  conscience  clear, 

Refuse  them  an  asylum  here, 

Or  not  maintain  in  manner  fitting 

These  genuine  sons  of  mother  Britain  ? 

T'  evade  these  crimes  of  blackest  grain, 

You  prate  of  liberty  in  vain, 

And  strive  to  hide  your  vile  designs 

With  terms  abstruse,  like  school-divines. 

' '  Your  boasted  patriotism  is  scarce, 
And  country's  love  is  but  a  farce ; 
And  after  all  the  proofs  you  bring, 
We  Tories  know  there's  no  such  thing. 
Our  English  writers  of  great  fame 
Prove  public  virtue  but  a  name. 
Hath  not  Dairy mple  show'd  in  print, 
And  Johnson  too,  there's  nothing  in't? 
Produc'd  you  demonstration  ample 
From  others'  and  their  own  example, 
That  self  is  still,  in  either  faction, 
The  only  principle  of  action ; 
The  loadstone,  whose  attracting  tether 
Keeps  the  politic  world  together  : 
And  spite  of  all  your  double-dealing, 
We  Tories  know  'tis  so,  by  feeling. 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  4! 

*  '  Who  heeds  your  babbling  of  transmitting 
Freedom  to  brats  of  your  begetting, 
Or  will  proceed  as  though  there  were  a  tie 
Or  obligation  to  posterity  ? 
We  get  'em,  bear  'em,  breed  and  nurse  ; 
What  has  poster'  ty  done  for  us, 
That  we,  lest  they  their  rights  should  lose, 
Should  trust  our  necks  to  gripe  of  noose?  " 


s  VISION  OF  AMERICA'S  FUTURE. 

IN  the  third  canto  McFingal  was  tarred  and  feathered,  but  in  the 
fourth,  which  was  written  after  the  Revolutionary  War,  he  is  repre- 
sented as  recovering  from  his  disgraceful  plight  and  relating  to  his 
friends  the  wonderful  vision  he  has  seen  of  the  various  events  of  that 
strife  and  the  future  greatness  of  America. 

And  see,  (sight  hateful  and  tormenting  !) 
This  rebel  Empire,  proud  and  vaunting, 
From  anarchy  shall  change  her  crasis,* 
And  fix  her  power  on  firmer  basis  ; 
To  glory,  wealth  and  fame  ascend, 
Her  commerce  wake,  her  realms  extend  ; 
Where  now  the  panther  guards  his  den, 
Her  desert  forests  swarm  with  men  ; 
Gay  cities,  towers  and  columns  rise, 
And  dazzling  temples  meet  the  skies: 
Her  pines,  descending  to  the  main, 
In  triumph  spread  the  watery  plain, 
Ride  inland  seas  with  fav'ring  gales, 
And  crowd  her  port  with  whitening  sails  : 
Till  to  the  skirts  of  western  day, 
The  peopled  regions  own  her  sway. 

*Old  medical  term  for  "constitutional  temperament" 


FRANCIS  HOPKINSON. 

AMONG  the  illustrious  sons  of  Phila- 
delphia Francis  Hopkinson  (1737-1791)  is  ~" 
prominent  as  a  judge,  a  member  of  the  Continental  Congress, 
and  a  signer  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence.  He  was 
also  notable  as  one  of  the  Revolutionary  satirists,  being  the 
author  of  "The  Battle  of  the  Kegs,"  "The  New  Roof/  and 
*  *  A  Pretty  Story. ' '  He  was  the  first  graduate  of  the  r  £  liege 
which  has  now  become  the  University  of  Pennsylvania.  He 
was  also  an  amateur  painter  and  musician,  and  experimented 
in  physics.  He  indited  little  poems  on  love  and  fox-hunting, 
and  was  pronounced  by  John  Adams  a  "pretty  little,  curious 
ingenious  man,"  with  a  head  "  not  bigger  than  a  large  apple." 

Francis  Hopkinson' s  "  Battle  of  the  Kegs  "  was  a  mockery 
of  the  alarm  of  the  British  troops  in  Philadelphia  in  1778 
caused  by  some  kegs  which  the  patriots  had  sent  floating  down 
the  Delaware  to  insure  the  shipping  at  the  wharves.  "  The 
New  Roof"  was  an  argument  in  favor  of  the  adoption  of  the 
Federal  Constitution.  Professor  Tyler  praises  most  highly 
his  "  Pretty  Story,"  published  under  the  disguise  of  "  Peter 
Grievous,  Esq."  (1774).  It  is  a  playful  allegory  on  the  events 
that  led  up  to  the  first  Continental  Congress.  It  discusses  the 
spirit  and  method  of  the  masters  of  the  Old  Farm  (England) 
in  their  dealing  with  the  settlers  of  the  New  Farm  (America). 
The  critic  renders  this  verdict  on  the  satirists  of  the  Revo- 
lution: "The  political  satire  of  Freneau  and  of  Trumbull  is, 
in  general,  grim,  bitter,  vehement,  unrelenting.  Hopkinson' s 
satire  is  as  keen  as  theirs,  but  its  characteristic  note  is  one 
of  playfulness.  He  accomplished  his  effects  without  bitter- 
ness or  violence." 
42 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  43 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  KEGS. 

THIS  ballad  relates  to  an  incident  of  the  British  occupation  of 
Philadelphia  in  1778.  Certain  machines,  in  the  form  of  kegs,  charged 
with  gunpowder,  were  sent  down  the  Delaware  River  to  annoy  the 
British  shipping.  The  danger  of  these  machines  being  discovered, 
the  British  manned  the  wharves,  and  discharged  their  small  arms  and 
cannons  at  everything  they  saw  floating  in  the  river. 

Gallants,  attend  and  hear  a  friend, 

Trill  forth  harmonious  ditty  ; 
Strange  things  I'll  tell,  which  late  befel 

In  Philadelphia  city. 

'Twas  early  day,  as  poets  say, 

Just  when  the  sun  was  rising, 
A  soldier  stood  on  a  log  of  wood 

And  saw  a  thing  surprising. 

As  in  amaze  he  stood  to  gaze, 

The  truth  can't  be  denied,  sir, 
He  spied  a  score  of  kegs  of  more 

Come  floating  down  the  tide,  sir. 

A  sailor  too  in  jerkin  blue, 

This  strange  appearance  viewing, 
First  damned  his  eyes,  in  great  surprise, 

Then  said,  "Some  mischief's  brewing. 

"These  kegs,  I'm  told,  the  rebels  hold, 

Packed  up  like  pickled  herring ; 
And  they're  come  down  t'  attack  the  town, 
In  this  new  way  of  ferrying. ' ' 

The  soldier  flew,  the  sailor  too, 

And  scared  almost  to  death,  sir, 
Wore  out  their  shoes,  to  spread  the  news, 

And  ran  till  out  of  breath,  sir. 

Now  up  and  down  throughout  the  town, 

Most  frantic  scenes  were  acted ; 
And  some  ran  here,  and  others  there, 

I/ike  men  almost  distracted. 


44  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

Some  fire  cry'd,  which  some  denied, 
But  said  the  earth  had  quaked ; 

And  girls  and  boys,  with  hideous  noise, 
Ran  thro'  the  streets  half  naked. 

Sir  William  he,  snug  as  a  flea, 
Lay  all  this  time  a  snoring, 

Nor  dreamed  of  harm,  as  he  lay  warm 
In  bed  with  Mrs.  I^oring. 

Now  in  a  fright,  he  starts  upright, 
Awaked  by  such  a  clatter ; 

He  rubs  both  eyes,  and  boldly  cries, 
For  God's  sake,  what's  the  matter? 

At  his  bedside  he  then  espied, 
Sir  Krskine  at  command,  sir. 

Upon  one  foot  he  had  one  boot, 
And  th'  other  in  his  hand,  sir. 

11  Arise,  arise,"  Sir  Erskine  cries, 
"The  rebels— more' s  the  pity, 
Without  a  boat  are  all  afloat, 
And  ranged  before  the  city. 

"The  motley  crew,  in  vessels  new, 
With  Satan  for  their  guide,  sir, 
Packed  up  in  bags,  or  wooden  kegs, 
Come  driving  down  the  tide,  sir. 

1 '  Therefore  prepare  for  bloody  war, 
These  kegs  must  all  be  routed, 
Or  surely  we  despised  shall  be, 
And  British  courage  doubted." 

The  royal  band  now  ready  stand 
All  ranged  in  dread  array,  sir, 

With  stomach  stout  to  see  it  out, 
And  make  a  bloody  day,  sir. 

The  cannons  roar  from  shore  to  shore, 
The  small  arms  make  a  rattle ; 

Since  wars  began  I'm. sure  no  man 
E'er  saw  so  strange  a  battle. 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  45 

The  rebel  dales,  the  rebel  vales, 

With  rebel  trees  surrounded ; 
The  distant  woods,  the  hills  and  floods, 

With  rebel  echoes  sounded. 

The  fish  below  swam  to  and  fro, 

Attacked  from  every  quarter ; 
Why  sure,  thought  they,  the  devil's  to  pay, 

'Mongst  folks  above  the  water. 

The  kegs,  'tis  said,  tho'  strongly  made, 

Of  rebel  staves  and  hoops,  sir, 
Could  not  oppose  their  powerful  foes, 

The  conq'ring  British  troops,  sir. 

From  morn  to  night  these  men  of  might 

Displayed  amazing  courage ; 
And  when  the  sun  was  fairly  down 

Retired  to  sup  their  porridge. 

An  hundred  men  with  each  a  pen, 

Or  more,  upon  my  word,  sir, 
It  is  most  true,  would  be  too  few, 

Their  valor  to  record,  sir. 

Such  feats  did  they  perform  that  day. 

Against  these  wicked  kegs,  sir, 
That  years  to  come,  if  they  get  home, 

They'll  make  their  boasts  and  brags,  sir. 


PHIUP  FRENEAU. 

PHILIP  FRENEAU,  the  best  poet  of  the  Revolutionary 
period,  was  the  descendant  of  a  French  family  exiled  by  the 
revocation  of  the  Edict  of  Nantes.  He  was  born  in  New  York 
in  1752,  and  died  in  Charleston  in  1832.  A  soldier  in  the 
Revolution,  he  was  taken  captive  by  the  British  and  confined 
in  one  of  their  prison-ships.  At  the  close  of  the  war,  he 
settled  down  to  journalism  and  wrote  constantly  until  his  death. 

He  was  fluent,  indeed  too  fluent  in  both  prose  and  poetry. 
He  wrote  hymns,  satires,  patriotic  odes  and  various  other 
kinds  of  verse.  Among  these  effusions  there  are  perhaps  half 
a  dozen  pieces  that  bear  the  impress  of  genuine  poetry,  nota- 


46  UTERATURS  OP  AW,  NATIONS. 

bly  "The  Wild  Honeysuckle,"  "The  Address  of  April  to 
May,"  and  "The  Indian  Burying  Ground.' '  Freneau  was 
particularly  successful  in  his  poems  of  Indian  tradition,  and 
both  Campbell  and  Scott  were  indebted  to  him  for  words, 
ideas  and  suggestions. 

THE  OLD  INDIAN  BURYING-GROUND. 

IN  spite  of  all  the  learned  have  said 

I  still  my  old  opinion  keep ; 
The  posture  that  we  give  the  dead 

Points  out  the  soul's  eternal  sleep. 

Not  so  the  ancients  of  these  lands ; — 
The  Indian,  when  from  life  released, 

Again  is  seated  with  his  friends, 
And  shares  again  the  joyous  feast. 

His  imaged  birds,  and  painted  bowl, 

And  ven'son,  for  a  journey  drest, 
Bespeak  the  nature  of  the  soul, — 

Activity,  that  wants  no  rest. 

His  bow  for  action  ready  bent, 

And  arrows  with  a  head  of  bone, 
Can  only  mean  that  life  is  spent, 

And  not  the  finer  essence  gone. 

Thou  stranger,  that  shalt  come  this  way. 

No  fraud  upon  the  dead  commit, 
Yet  mark  the  swelling  turf,  and  say, 

They  do  not  lie,  but  here  they  sit. 

Here  still  a  lofty  rock  remains, 
On  which  the  curious  eye  may  trace 

(Now  wasted  half  by  wearing  rains) 
The  fancies  of  a  ruder  race. 

Here  still  an  aged  elm  aspires, 

Beneath  whose  far-projecting  shade 
(And  which  the  shepherd  still  admires) 

The  children  of  the  forest  played. 

/ 
There  oft  a  restless  Indian  queen, 

(Pale  Marian,  with  her  braided  hair) 


AMERICAN  UTBRATURE.  47 

And  many  a  barbarous  form  is  seen 
To  chide  the  man  that  lingers  there. 

By  midnight  moons,  o'er  moistening  dews, 
In  vestments  for  the  chase  arrayed, 

The  hunter  still  the  deer  pursues,— 
The  hunter  and  the  deer — a  shade. 

And  long  shall  timorous  Fancy  see 
The  painted  chief,  and  pointed  spear, 

And  reason's  self  shall  bow  the  knee 
To  shadows  and  delusions  here. 

THE  EARLY  NEW  ENGLANDERS. 

THESE  exiles  were  formed  in  a  whimsical  mould, 

And  were  awed  by  their  priests  like  the  Hebrews  of  old, 

Disclaimed  all  pretenses  to  jesting  and  laughter, 

And  sighed  their  lives  through  to  be  happy  hereafter. 

On  a  crown  immaterial  their  hearts  were  intent, 

They  looked  toward  Zion,  wherever  they  went, 

Did  all  things  in  hopes  of  a  future  reward , 

4nd  worried  mankind — for  the  sake  of  the  Lord.  .  .  . 

A  stove  in  their  churches,  or  pews  lined  with  green, 

Where,  horrid  to  think  of,  much  less  to  be  seen ; 

Their  bodies  were  warmed  with  the  linings  of  love, 

And  the  fire  was  sufficient  that  flashed  from  above.  .  .  . 

On  Sundays  their  faces  were  dark  as  a  cloud ; 

The  road  to  the  meeting  was  only  allowed ; 

And  those  they  caught  rambling  on  business  or  pleasure 

Were  sent  to  the  stocks,  to  repent  at  their  leisure. 

This  day  was  the  mournfulest  day  of  the  week ; 

Except  on  religion  none  ventured  to  speak  ; 

This  day  was  the  day  to  examine  their  lives, 

To  clear  off  old  scores,  and  to  preach  to  their  wives.  .  .  . 

This  beautiful  system  of  Nature  below 

They  neither  considered,  nor  wanted  to  know, 

And  called  it  a  dog-house  wherein  they  were  pent, 

Unworthy  themselves  and  their  mighty  descent. 

They  never  perceived  that  in  Nature's  wide  plan 

There  must  be  that  whimsical  creature  called  Man — 

Far  short  of  the  rank  he  affects  to  attain, 

Yet  a  link,  in  its  place,  in  creation's  vast  chain.  .  .  . 


48  UTBRATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

Thus  feuds  and  vexations  distracted  their  reign — 
And  perhaps  a  few  vestiges  still  may  remain ; — 
But  time  has  presented  an  offspring  as  bold; 
I^ess  free  to  believe,  and  more  wise  than  the  old.  .  .  . 
Proud,  rough,  independent,  undaunted  and  free, 
And  patient  of  hardships,  their  task  is  the  sea ; 
Their  country  too  barren  their  wish  to  attain, 
They  make  up  the  loss  by  exploring  the  main. 
Wherever  bright  Phoebus  awakens  the  gales, 
I  see  the  bold  Yankees  expanding  their  sails, 
Throughout  the  wide  ocean  pursuing  their  schemes, 
And  chasing  the  whales  on  its  uttermost  streams. 
No  climate  for  them  is  too  cold  or  too  warm  ; 
They  reef  the  broad  canvas,  and  fight  with  the  storm ; 
In  war  with  the  foremost  their  standards  display, 
Or  glut  the  loud  cannon  with  death  for  the  fray. 
No  valor  in  fable  their  valor  exceeds  ; 
Their  spirits  are  fitted  for  desperate  deeds ; 
No  rivals  have  they  in  our  annals  of  fame, 
Or,  if  they  are  rivaled,  'tis  York  has  the  claim. 


TIMOTHY  DWIGHT. 

TIMOTHY  DWIGHT,  the  first  and  most  famous  of  an  illus- 
trious family  of  New  England  educators  and  theologians,  was 
the  friend  of  Trumbull.  He  was  born  in  Massachusetts  in 
1752,  and  died  in  New  Haven  in  1817,  having  been  President 
of  Yale  College  for  twenty-two  years.  His  poems,  *  *  The 
Conquest  of  Canaan,"  "The  Triumph  of  Infidelity,"  and 
" Greenfield  Hill,"  were  approved  by  his  generation  as  moral 
and  graceful,  but  are  now  altogether  neglected.  His  "  The- 
ology Explained  and  Defended,"  in  which  he  exhibited  a 
moderate  Calvinism,  was  still  more  widely  circulated  in  the 
United  States.  His  "Travels  in  New  England  and  New  York  " 
contains  much  historical,  statistical  and  topographical  infor- 
mation, but  is  now  chiefly  notable  for  its  record  of  American 
society  and  manners  in  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth 
century. 


AMERICAN   LITERATURE.  49 


COLUMBIA. 

COLUMBIA,  Columbia,  to  glory  arise, 

The  queen  of  the  world,  and  the  child  of  the  skies  I 

Thy  genius  commands  thee ;  with  rapture  behold, 

While  ages  on  ages  thy  splendors  unfold. 

Thy  reign  is  the  last,  and  the  noblest  of  time, 

Most  fruitful  thy  soil,  most  inviting  thy  clime ; 

Let  the  crimes  of  the  East  ne'er  encrimson  thy  name, 

Be  Freedom,  and  Science,  and  Virtue,  thy  fame. 

To  conquest  and  slaughter  let  Europe  aspire  : 
Whelm  nations  in  blood,  and  wrap  cities  in  fire ; 
Thy  heroes  the  rights  of  mankind  shall  defend, 
And  triumph  pursue  them,  and  glory  attend. 
A  world  is  thy  realm :  for  a  world  be  thy  laws 
Enlarged  as  thine  empire,  and  just  as  thy  cause; 
On  Freedom's  broad  basis,  that  empire  shall  rise, 
Extend  with  the  main,  and  dissolve  with  the  skies, 

Fair  Science  her  gates  to  thy  sons  shall  unbar, 
And  the  east  see  thy  morn  hide  the  beams  of  her  star, 
New  bards  and  new  sages  unrivaled  shall  soar 
To  fame  unextinguished  when  time  is  no  more ; 
To  thee,  the  last  refuge  of  virtue  designed, 
Shall  fly  from  all  nations  the  best  of  mankind ; 
Here,  grateful  to  Heaven,  with  transport  shall  bring 
Their  incense,  more  fragrant  than  odors  of  spring. 

Thus,  as  down  a  lone  valley,  with  cedars  o'erspread, 
From  war's  dread  confusion  I  pensively  strayed, 
The  gloom  from  the  face  of  fair  heaven  retired ; 
The  winds  ceased  to  murmur ;  the  thunder  expired ; 
Perfumes,  as  of  Eden,  flowed  sweetly  along, 
And  a  voice,  as  of  angels,  enchantingly  sung ; 
' '  Columbia,  Columbia,  to  glory  arise, 
The  queen  of  the  world,  and  the  child  of  the  skies!  " 

IX— 4 


THE  pioneer  American  novelist  was  Charles 
Brockden  Brown,  who  was  born  in  Phil- 
adelphia in  1771,  and  died  there  of  consumption,  at  the  age 
of  thirty-nine.  He  was  a  man  of  good  family  and  well  edu- 
cated, and  was  trained  as  a  lawyer  ;  but  quiet,  sickly  and 
retiring,  he  preferred  literature  to  the  bar,  and  after  an  in- 
genious speculation,  called  "  Alcuin :  A  Dialogue  on  the 
Rights  of  Women, "  he  poured  forth  several  political  pam- 
phlets, minor  poems,  tales  and  biographical  essays.  In  addi- 
tion to  other  literary  work,  he  published  a  series  of  novels, 
five  of  them  being  written  in  three  years,  and  all  of  them 
before  he  was  thirty.  He  also  edited  and  was  the  chief  con- 
tributor to  three  successive  literary  magazines. 

Brown  was  the  first  American  writer  to  obtain  a  European 
celebrity.  His  romances  were  eagerly  devoured,  and  the 
criticisms  of  the  time  awarded  him  a  high  place  in  literature. 
He  was  no  traveler,  his  longest  journeys  being  from  Phila- 
delphia to  New  York,  but  he  read  voraciously,  and,  in  par- 
ticular, he  seems  to  have  assimilated  the  English  novels  of 
the  time.  Those  were  the  fear-inspiring  and  blood-curdling 
romances  of  Mrs.  Radcliffe  and  "Monk"  Lewis,  and  Brown 
imported  their  whole  apparatus  of  thrilling  mysteries  from 
the  ghostly  castles  and  cloisters  of  Europe  to  the  plain  brick 
or  wooden  dwellings  of  what  had  just  been  the  colonies. 
When  the  mysteries  refused  to  be  so  "cribbed,  cabined  and 
confined, ' '  Brown  built  them  a  summer  house  or  two,  near  at 
hand,  on  a  height,  beside  a  precipice,  above  a  darkly  rolling 
river.  As  for  the  appropriate  accessories,  they  are  all  here, 
— spooks,  unaccountable  voices,  midnight  intruders,  the 
SO 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  51 

swish  of  unearthly  garments ;  the  dark  man  with  a  past, 
the  beautiful  woman  under  a  cloud,  the  estimable  son,  hus- 
band, father,  brother,  friend,  who  proved  to  be  a  veritable 
fiend.  And  the  whole  plot  ends  in  an  electric  glare  of  ex- 
planation, the  supernatural  melting  weakly  into  a  trick  of 
ventriloquism,  a  habit  of  somnambulism,  and  the  like. 

Brown's  novels  are  weird,  unhealthy,  and  exciting,  with 
powerful  passages,  but,  in  general,  imitative  of  old  world 
tales.  What  we  really  miss  is  space,  landscape,  hoary  piles, 
ruined  monasteries,  and  distinction.  His  plots  are  his  own, 
his  manner,  William  Godwin's,  the  machinery,  Mrs.  Rad- 
cliffe's  or  Monk  Lewis's.  His  two  most  hectic  and  popular 
novels  are  "Wieland"  and  "  Edgar  Huntly;"  "  Arthur 
Mervyn"  contains  a  particularly  circumstantial  account  of 
the  yellow  fever  in  Philadelphia  in  1793,  which  exhibits 
clearly  Brown's  mastery  of  the  details  of  the  horrible.  The 
author  himself  was  pure-minded  and  amiable,  much  beloved, 
and  much  lamented. 

YELLOW  FEVER  IN  PHILADELPHIA  IN  1793. 

(From  4 '  Arthur  Mervyn. ' ' ) 

As  I  drew  near  the  city,  the  tokens  of  its  calamitous  con- 
dition became  more  apparent.  Every  farm-house  was  filled 
with  supernumerary  tenants,  fugitives  from  home,  and  haunt- 
ing the  skirts  of  the  road,  eager  to  detain  every  passenger 
with  inquiries  after  news.  The  passengers  were  numerous; 
for  the  tide  of  emigration  was  by  no  means  exhausted.  Some 
were  on  foot,  bearing  in  their  countenances  tokens  of  their 
recent  terror,  and  filled  with  mournful  reflections  on  the  for- 
lornness  of  their  state.  Few  had  secured  to  themselves  an 
asylum;  some  were  without  the  means  of  paying  for  food  or 
lodging  in  the  coming  night;  others,  who  were  not  thus 
destitute,  knew  not  where  to  apply  for  entertainment,  every 
house  being  already  overstocked  with  inhabitants,  or  barring 
its  inhospitable  doors  at  their  approach. 

Families  of  weeping  mothers  and  dismayed  children,  at- 
tended with  a  few  pieces  of  indispensable  furniture,  were 
carried  in  vehicles  of  every  form.  The  parent  or  husband 


52  UTICRATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

had  perished;  and  the  price  of  some  movable,  or  the  pittance 
handed  forth  by  public  charity,  had  been  expended  to  pur- 
chase the  means  of  retiring  from  this  theatre  of  disasters; 
though  uncertain  and  hopeless  of  accommodation  in  the 
neighboring  districts. 

Between  these  and  the  fugitives  whom  curiosity  had  led 
to  the  road,  dialogues  frequently  took  place,  to  which  I  was 
suffered  to  listen.  From  every  mouth  the  tale  of  sorrow  was 
repeated  with  new  aggravations.  Pictures  of  their  own  dis- 
tress, or  that  of  their  neighbors,  were  exhibited  in  all  the 
hues  which  imagination  can  annex  to  pestilence  and 
poverty.  .  .  . 

The  sun  had  nearly  set  before  I  reached  the  precincts  of 
the  city.  I  entered  High  street  after  nightfall.  Instead  of 
equipages  and  a  throng  of  passengers,  the  voice  of  levity 
which  I  had  formerly  observed,  and  which  the  mildness  of 
the  season  would  at  other  times  have  produced,  I  found  no- 
thing but  a  dreary  solitude. 

The  market-place,  and  each  side  of  this  magnificent 
avenue  were  illuminated,  as  before,  by  lamps;  but  between 
the  Schuylkill  and  the  heart  of  the  city,  I  met  not  more  than 
a  dozen  figures;  and  these  were  ghost-like,  wrapt  in  cloaks, 
from  behind  which  they  cast  upon  me  glances  of  wonder  and 
suspicion;  and,  as  I  approached,  changed  their  course  to 
avoid  me.  Their  clothes  were  sprinkled  with  vinegar,  and 
their  nostrils  defended  from  contagion  by  some  powerful 
perfume. 

I  cast  a  look  upon  the  houses,  which  I  recollected  to  have 
seen  brilliant  with  lights,  resounding  with  lively  voices,  and 
thronged  with  busy  faces.  Now  they  were  closed,  above  and 

below;  dark,  and  without  tokens  of  being  inhabited 

I  approached  a  house,  the  door  of  which  was  opened,  and 
before  which  stood  a  vehicle,  which  I  presently  recognized  to 
be  a  hearse.  The  driver  was  seated  on  it.  I  stood  still  to 
mark  his  visage,  and  to  observe  the  course  which  he  pro- 
posed to  take.  Presently  a  coffin,  borne  by  two  men,  issued. 
The  driver  was  a  negro,  but  his  companions  were  white. 
Their  features  were  marked  by  indifference  to  danger  or  pity. 
One  of  them,  as  he  assisted  in  thrusting  the  coffin  into  the 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  53 

cavity  provided  for  it,  said,  "Til  be  damned  if  I  think  the 
poor  dog  was  quite  dead.  It  wasn't  the  fever  that  ailed  him, 
but  the  sight  of  the  girl  and  her  mother  on  the  floor.  I 
wonder  how  they  all  got  into  that  room.  What  carried  them 
there  ?" 

The  other  surlily  muttered,  "Their  legs,  to  be  sure." 

"  But  what  should  they  hug  together  in  one  room  for?" 

"To  save  us  trouble,  to  be  sure." 

"And  I  thank  them  with  all  my  heart;  but  damn  it,  it 
wasn't  right  to  put  him  in  his  coffin  before  the  breath  was 
fairly  gone.  I  thought  the  last  look  he  gave  me  told  me  to 
stay  a  few  minutes." 

"  Pshaw  !  he  could  not  live.  The  sooner  dead  the  better 
for  him,  as  well  as  for  us.  Did  you  mark  how  he  eyed  us, 
when  we  carried  away  his  wife  and  daughter  ?  I  never  cried 
in  my  life,  since  I  was  knee-high,  but  curse  me  if  I  ever  felt 
in  better  tune  for  the  business  than  just  then.  Hey  !  "  con- 
tinued he,  looking  up  and  observing  me,  standing  a  few 
paces  distant,  and  listening  to  their  discourse,  "What's 
wanted  ?  Anybody  dead  ?  }> 

I  stayed  not  to  answer  or  parley,  but  hurried  forward.  My 
joints  trembled,  and  cold  drops  stood  on  my  forehead.  I  was 
ashamed  of  my  own  infirmity  ;  and  by  vigorous  efforts  of  my 
reason,  regained  some  degree  of  composure. 

WELBECK  AND  MERVYN. 

(From  "Arthur  Mervyn.'') 

[Welbeck,  to  avoid  his  creditors  and  an  arrest  for  murder,  secretly 
quitted  Philadelphia.  Mervyn,  sick  with  the  yellow  fever,  finds  his 
way  to  the  house  he  had  inhabited,  in  the  hope  of  dying  there  alone. 
But  Welbeck  returns  hoping  to  secure  twenty  one-thousand  dollar 
notes  concealed  between  the  leaves  of  a  MS.  volume  which  had  be- 
longed to  a  young  foreigner  whom  he  had  attended  in  his  last  moments, 
whose  property  he  had  seized,  and  whose  sister  he  had  ruined.  Mervyn 
has  already  discovered  this  money,  and,  in  the  hope  of  being  able  to 
return  it  to  the  unfortunate  girl,  taken  possession  of  it.  Welbeck  re- 
lates to  Mervyn  his  adventures  since  their  separation  and  inquires 
about  the  missing  volume.] 


had  ceased  to  be  dreaded  or  revered.    That  awe 
which  was  once  created  by  his  superiority  of  age,  refinement 


54  UTERATURE  OF  AM,  NATIONS. 

of  manners,  and  dignity  of  garb,  had  vanished.  I  was  a  boy 
in  years,  an  indigent  and  uneducated  rustic,  but  I  was  able 
to  discern  the  illusions  of  power  and  riches,  and  abjured  every 
claim  to  esteem  that  was  not  founded  on  integrity.  There 
was  no  tribunal  before  which  I  should  falter  in  asserting 
the  truth,  and  no  species  of  martyrdom  which  I  would  not 
cheerfully  embrace  in  its  cause. 

After  some  pause,  I  said,  u  Cannot  you  conjecture  in  what 
way  this  volume  has  disappeared? " 

"  No; "  he  answered  with  a  sigh.  "Why,  of  all  his  vol- 
umes, this  only  should  have  vanished,  was  an  inexplicable 
enigma." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  I,  "it  is  less  important  to  know  how  it 
was  removed,  than  by  whom  it  is  now  possessed.'* 

"Unquestionably;  and  yet  unless  that  knowledge  enables 
me  to  regain  the  possession  it  will  be  useless." 

"Useless  then  it  will  be,  for  the  present  possessor  will 
never  return  it  to  you." 

"Indeed,"  replied  he,  in  a  tone  of  dejection,  "your  con- 
jecture is  most  probable.  Such  a  prize  is  of  too  much  value 
to  be  given  up." 

"  What  I  have  said  flows  not  from  conjecture,  but  from 
knowledge.  I  know  that  it  will  never  be  restored  to  you." 

At  these  words,  Welbeck  looked  at  me  with  anxiety  and 
doubt. — "  You  know  that  it  will  not!  Have  you  any  know- 
ledge of  the  book  ?  Can  you  tell  me  what  has  become  of  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  after  our  separation  on  the  river,  I  returned  to  this 
house.  I  found  this  volume  and  secured  it.  You  rightly 
suspected  its  contents.  The  money  was  there." 

Welbeck  started  as  if  he  had  trodden  on  a  mine  of  gold. 
His  first  emotion  was  rapturous,  but  was  immediately  chas- 
tised by  some  degree  of  doubt.  "  What  has  become  of  it  ? 
Have  you  got  it?  Is  it  entire?  Have  you  it  with  you?" 

"  It  is  unimpaired.  I  have  got  it,  and  shall  hold  it  as  sa- 
cred for  the  rightful  proprietor." 

The  tone  with  which  this  declaration  was  accompanied, 
shook  the  new-born  confidence  of  Welbeck.  "The  rightful 
proprietor  !  true,  but  I  am  he.  To  me  only  it  belongs,  and 
to  me  you  are  doubtless  willing  to  restore  it." 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  55 

"  Mr.  Welbeck,  it  is  not  iny  desire  to  give  you  perplexity 
or  anguish :  to  sport  with  your  passions.  On  the  supposition 
of  your  death,  I  deemed  it  no  infraction  of  justice  to  take  this 
manuscript.  Accident  unfolded  its  contents.  I  could  not 
hesitate  to  choose  my  path.  The  natural  and  legal  successor 
of  Vincentio  Lodi  is  his  sister.  To  her,  therefore,  this  pro- 
perty belongs,  and  to  her  only  will  I  give  it." 

"  Presumptuous  boy!  And  this  is  your  sage  decision.  I 
tell  you  that  I  am  the  owner,  and  to  me  you  shall  render  it. 
Who  is  this  girl?  childish  and  ignorant!  unable  to  consult 
and  to  act  for  herself  on  the  most  trivial  occasion!  Am  I  not, 
by  the  appointment  of  her  dying  brother,  her  protector  and 
guardian  ?  Her  age  produces  a  legal  incapacity  of  property. 
Do  you  imagine  that  so  obvious  an  expedient  as  that  of  pro- 
curing my  legal  appointment  as  her  guardian,  was  overlooked 
by  me  ?  If  it  were  neglected,  still  my  title  to  provide  her 
subsistence  and  enjoyment  is  unquestionable.  Did  I  not  res- 
cue her  from  poverty,  and  prostitution,  and  infamy  ?  Have  I 
not  supplied  all  her  wants  with  incessant  solicitude  ?  What- 
ever her  condition  required  has  been  plenteously  bestowed. 
This  dwelling  and  its  furniture  were  hers,  as  far  as  a  rigid 
jurisprudence  would  permit.  To  prescribe  her  expenses  and 
govern  her  family  was  the  province  of  her  guardian.  You 
have  heard  the  tale  of  my  anguish  and  despair.  Whence  did 
they  flow,  but  from  the  frustration  of  schemes  projected  for 
her  benefit,  as  they  were  executed  with  her  money  and  by 
means  which  the  authority  of  her  guardian  fully  justified? 
Why  have  I  encountered  this  contagious  atmosphere,  and  ex- 
plored my  way,  like  a  thief,  to  this  recess,  but  with  a  view  to 
rescue  her  from  poverty  and  restore  to  her  her  own  ?  Your 
scruples  are  ridiculous  and  criminal.  I  treat  them  with  less 
severity,  because  your  youth  is  raw  and  your  conceptions 
crude.  But  if,  after  this  proof  of  the  justice  of  my  claim,  you 
hesitate  to  restore  the  money,  I  shall  treat  you  as  a  robber, 
who  has  plundered  my  cabinet  and  refused  to  refund  his 
spoil." 

I  was  acquainted  with  the  rights  of  guardianship.  Wel- 
beck had,  in  some  respects,  acted  as  the  friend  of  this  lady. 
To  vest  himself  with  this  office  was  the  conduct  which  her 


56  UTERATURE  OF  AM,  NATIONS. 

youth  and  helplessness  prescribed  to  her  friend.  His  title  to 
this  money,  as  her  guardian,  could  not  be  denied.  But  how  was 
this  statement  compatible  with  former  representations  ?  No 
mention  had  then  been  made  of  guardianship.  By  thus  act- 
ing, he  would  have  thwarted  all  his  schemes  for  winning  the 
esteem  of  mankind,  and  fostering  the  belief  which  the  world 
entertained  of  his  opulence  and  independence.  I  was  thrown, 
by  these  thoughts,  into  considerable  perplexity. 

Welbeck  cast  fearful  glances  at  the  windows  and  door. 
He  examined  every  avenue  and  listened.  Thrice  he  repeated 
this  scrutiny.  Having,  as  it  seemed,  ascertained  that  no  one 
lurked  within  audience,  he  approached  the  bed.  He  put  his 
mouth  close  to  my  face.  He  attempted  to  speak,  but  once 
more  examined  the  apartment  with  suspicious  glances.  He 
drew  closer,  and  at  length,  in  a  tone  scarcely  articulate  and 
suffocated  with  emotion,  he  spoke:  " Excellent,  but  fatally 
obstinate  youth  !  know  at  least  the  cause  of  my  importunity ; 
know  at  least  the  depth  of  my  infatuation  and  the  enormity 
of  my  guilt.  The  bills — surrender  them  to  me,  and  save 
yourself  from  persecution  and  disgrace !  Save  the  woman 
whom  you  wish  to  benefit  from  the  blackest  imputations ; 
from  hazard  to  her  life  and  her  fame ;  from  languishing  in 
dungeons ;  from  expiring  on  the  gallows  !  The  bills — O  save 
me  from  the  bitterness  of  death  !  L,et  the  evils  to  which  my 
miserable  life  has  given  birth  terminate  .here  and  in  myself. 
Surrender  them  to  me,  for" — 

There  he  stopped.  His  utterance  was  choked  by  terror. 
Rapid  glances  were  again  darted  at  the  windows  and  door.  The 
silence  was  uninterrupted  except  by  far-off  sounds,  produced  by 
some  moving  carriage.  Once  more  he  summoned  resolution 
and  spoke:  "Surrender  them  to  me — for — they  are  forged. 
Formerly  I  told  you  that  a  scheme  of  forgery  had  been  con- 
ceived. Shame  would  not  suffer  me  to  add  that  my  scheme 
was  carried  into  execution.  The  bills  were  fashioned,  but 
my  fears  contended  against  my  necessities,  and  forbade  me  to 
attempt  to  exchange  them.  The  interview  with  L,odi  saved 
me  from  the  dangerous  experiment.  I  enclosed  them  in  that 
volume  to  be  used  when  all  other  and  less  hazardous  resources 
should  fail.  In  the  agonies  of  my  remorse  at  the  death  of 


AMERICAN  UTBRATURE.  57 

Watson,  they  were  forgotten.  They  afterward  recurred  to 
recollection.  My  wishes  pointed  to  the  grave ;  but  the  stroke 
that  should  deliver  rne  from  life  was  suspended  only  till  I 
could  hasten  hither,  get  possession  of  these  papers  and  destroy 
them.  When  I  thought  upon  the  chances  that  should  give 
them  an  owner ;  bring  them  into  circulation  ;  load  the  inno- 
cent with  suspicion ;  and  lead  them  to  trial  and  perhaps  to 
death,  my  sensations  were  agony;  earnestly  as  I  panted  for 
death,  it  was  necessarily  deferred  till  I  had  gained  possession 
of  and  destroyed  these  papers.  What  now  remains?  You 
have  found  them.  Happily  they  have  not  been  used.  Give 
them  therefore  to  me,  that  I  may  crush  at  once  the  brood  of 
mischiefs  which  they  could  not  but  generate. n 

This  disclosure  was  strange.  It  was  accompanied  with 
every  token  of  sincerity.  How  had  I  tottered  on  the  brink 
of  destruction  !  If  I  had  made  use  of  this  money,  in  what  a 
labyrinth  of  misery  might  I  not  have  been  involved !  My 
innocence  could  never  have  been  proved.  An  alliance  with 
Welbeck  could  not  have  failed  to  be  inferred.  My  career 
would  have  found  an  ignominious  close ;  or,  if  my  punish- 
ment had  been  commuted  into  slavery,  would  the  testimony 
of  my  conscience  have  supported  me  ?  I  shuddered  at  the 
view  of  the  disasters  from  which  I  was  rescued  by  the  miracu- 
lous chance  which  led  me  to  this  house.  Welbeck' s  request 
was  salutary  to  me  and  honorable  to  himself.  I  could  not 
hesitate  a  moment  in  compliance.  The  notes  were  enclosed 
in  paper,  and  deposited  in  a  fold  of  my  clothes.  I  put  my 
hand  upon  them.  My  motion  and  attention  was  arrested  at 
the  instant,  by  a  noise  which  arose  in  the  street.  Footsteps 
were  heard  upon  the  pavement  before  the  door,  and  voices,  as 
if  busy  in  discourse. 

This  incident  was  adapted  to  infuse  the  deepest  alarm  into 
myself  and  my  companion.  The  motives  of  our  trepidation 
were  indeed  different,  and  were  infinitely  more  powerful  in 
my  case  than  in  his.  It  portended  to  me  nothing  less  than 
the  loss  of  my  asylum  and  condemnation  to  a  hospital. 
Welbeck  hurried  to  the  door  to  listen  to  the  conversation 
below.  This  interval  was  pregnant  with  thought.  That 
impulse  which  led  my  reflections  from  Welbeck  to  my  own 


58  LITERATURE  OF  AM,  NATIONS. 

state,  passed  away  in  a  moment,  and  suffered  me  to  meditate 
anew  npon  the  terms  of  that  confession  which  had  just  been 
made.  Horror  at  the  fate  which  this  interview  had  enabled 
me  to  shun,  was  uppermost  in  my  conceptions.  I  was  eager 
to  surrender  these  fatal  bills.  I  held  them  for  that  purpose 
in  my  hand,  and  was  impatient  for  Welbeck' s  return.  He 
continued  at  the  door ;  stooping,  with  his  face  averted,  and 
eagerly  attentive  to  the  conversation  in  the  street.  All  the 
circumstances  of  my  present  situation  tended  to  arrest  the 
progress  of  thought  and  chain  my  contemplations  to  one 
image ;  but  even  now  there  was  room  for  foresight  and  delib- 
eration. Welbeck  intended  to  destroy  these  bills.  Perhaps 
he  had  not  been  sincere ;  or,  if  his  purpose  had  been  honestly 
disclosed,  this  purpose  might  change  when  the  bills  were  in 
his  possession.  His  poverty  and  sanguineness  of  temper 
might  prompt  him  to  use  them.  That  this  conduct  was  evil 
and  would  only  multiply  his  miseries,  could  not  be  questioned. 
Why  should  I  subject  his  frailty  to  this  temptation  ?  The 
destruction  of  these  bills  was  the  loudest  injunction  of  duty ; 
was  demanded  by  every  sanction  which  bound  me  to  promote 
the  welfare  of  mankind.  The  means  of  destruction  were 
easy. 

A  lighted  candle  stood  on  a  table,  at  the  distance  of  a 
few  yards.  Why  should  I  hesitate  a  moment  to  annihilate  so 
powerful  a  cause  of  error  and  guilt  ?  A  passing  instant  was 
sufficient.  A  momentary  lingering  might  change  the  circum- 
stances that  surrounded  me  and  frustrate  my  project.  My 
languors  were  suspended  by  the  urgencies  of  the  occasion.  I 
started  from  my  bed  and  glided  to  the  table.  Seizing  the 
notes  with  my  right  hand,  I  held  them  in  the  flame  of  the 
candle,  and  then  threw  them  blazing  on  the  floor.  The  sud- 
den illumination  was  perceived  by  Welbeck.  The  cause  of  it 
appeared  to  suggest  itself  as  soon.  He  turned,  and  marking 
the  paper  where  it  lay,  leaped  to  the  spot  and  extinguished 
the  fire  with  his  foot.  His  interposition  was  too  late.  Only 
enough  of  them  remained  to  inform  him  of  the  nature  of  the 
sacrifice.  He  now  stood  with  limbs  trembling,  features  aghast 
and  eyes  glaring  upon  me.  For  a  time  he  was  without  speech. 
The  storm  was  gathering  in  silence,  and  at  length  burst  upon 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  59 

me.     In  a  tone  menacing  and  loud,  he  exclaimed  :  "Wretch  ! 
What  have  you  done  ?  " 

"  I  have  done  justly.  These  notes  were  false.  You  desired 
to  destroy  them  that  they  might  not  betray  the  innocent.  I 
applauded  your  purpose,  and  have  saved  you  from  the  danger 
of  temptation  by  destroying  them  myself." 

"  Maniac  !  miscreant !  to  be  fooled  by  so  gross  an  artifice  ! 
The  notes  were  genuine.  The  tale  of  their  forgery  was  false, 
and  meant  only  to  wrest  them  from  you.  Execrable  and  per- 
verse idiot !  Your  deed  has  sealed  my  perdition.  It  has  sealed 
your  own.  You  shall  pay  for  it  with  your  blood.  I  will  slay 
you  by  inches.  I  will  stretch  you,  as  you  have  stretched  me, 
on  the  rack  ! ' ' 

During  this  speech,  all  was  phrensy  and  storm  in  the 
features  of  Welbeck.  Nothing  less  could  be  expected  than 
that  the  scene  would  terminate  in  some  bloody  catastrophe.  I 
bitterly  regretted  the  facility  with  which  I  had  been  deceived, 
and  the  precipitation  of  my  sacrifice.  The  act,  however,  could 
not  be  revoked.  What  remained  but  to  encounter  or  endure 
its  consequences  with  unshrinking  firmness  ? 

The  contest  was  too  unequal.  It  is  possible  that  the 
phrensy  which  actuated  Welbeck  might  have  speedily  sub- 
sided. It  is  more  likely  that  his  passions  would  have  been 
satiated  with  nothing  but  my  death.  This  event  was  pre- 
cluded by  loud  knocks  at  the  street  door,  and  calls  by  some 
one  on  the  pavement  without,  of — Who  is  within?  Is  any 
one  within  ? 

"  They  are  coming,"  said  he.  "  They  will  treat  you  as  a 
sick  man  and  a  thief.  I  cannot  desire  you  to  suffer  worse  evil 
than  they  will  inflict.  I  leave  you  to  your  fate."  So  saying, 
he  rushed  out  of  the  room. 


JOEL  BARLOW. 

ONE  of  the  most  stupendous  failures  in  the  annals  of  liter- 
ature is  Barlow's  u  Columbiad,"  a  ponderous  epic  in  ten  cantos. 
In  it  Hesper,  the  Genius  of  the  Western  Continent,  presents 
to  Columbus  visions  of  the  history  of  the  New  World.  The 
author,  Joel  Barlow  (1755-1812),  was  a  native  of  Connecticut, 


60  WTERATURE  OP  AI<I<  NATIONS. 

served  as  a  chaplain  in  the  Revolutionary  army,  and  belonged 
to  "The  Hartford  wits."  But  after  the  war,  passing  under 
French  influence  he  became  a  Deist  and  a  lawyer.  Going  to 
France  in  1788,  he  associated  with  the  leading  Girondists. 
After  acquiring  considerable  fortune,  he  returned  to  America 
and  settled  in  Washington.  Then  he  published  his  ambitious 
epic  in  a  costly  quarto.  In  181 1  he  was  sent  as  United  States 
Minister  to  France.  Being  summoned  to  a  conference  with 
the  Emperor  Napoleon  in  Poland,  he  died  suddenly  while  on 
the  way.  He  is  best  remembered  by  his  mock-heroic  poem, 
u  Hasty  Pudding,"  which,  written  in  Savoy  in  1793,  is  a 
partial  picture  of  New  England  life. 

HASTY  PUDDING. 

(From  Canto  I.) 

YE  Alps  audacious,  through  the  heavens  that  rise, 
To  cramp  the  day  and  hide  me  from  the  skies ; 
Ye  Gallic  flags,  that,  o'er  their  heights  unfurled, 
Bear  death  to  kings,  and  freedom  to  the  world, 
I  sing  not  you.     A  softer  theme  I  choose, 
A  virgin  theme,  unconscious  of  the  Muse, 
But  fruitful,  rich,  well  suited  to  inspire 
The  purest  frenzy  of  poetic  fire. 

Despise  it  not,  ye  bards  to  terror  steeled, 
Who  hurl  your  thunders  round  the  epic  field ; 
Nor  ye  who  strain  your  midnight  throats  to  sing 
Joys  that  the  vineyard  and  the  still- house  bring ; 
Or  on  some  distant  fair  your  notes  employ, 
And  speak  of  raptures  that  you  ne'er  enjoy. 
I  sing  the  sweets  I  know,  the  charms  I  feel, 
My  morn'ng  incense,  and  my  evening  meal, 
The  sweets  of  Hasty  Pudding.     Come,  dear  bowl, 
Glide  o'er  my  palate,  and  inspire  my  soul. 
The  milk  beside  thee,  smoking  from  the  kine, 
Its  substance  mingled,  married  in  with  thine, 
Shall  cool  and  temper  thy  superior  heat, 
And  save  the  pains  of  blowing  while  I  eat. 

Oh  !  could  the  smooth,  the  emblematic  song 
Flow  like  thy  genial  juices  o'er  my  tongue, 
Could  those  mild  morsels  in  my  numbers  chime, 
And,  as  they  roll  in  substance,  roll  in  rhyme, 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  6l 

No  more  thy  awkward,  unpoetic  name 
Should  shun  the  muse  or  prejudice  thy  fame, 
But,  rising  grateful  to  the  accustomed  ear, 
All  bards  should  catch  it,  and  all  realms  revere ! 

Assist  me  first  with  pious  toil  to  trace, 
Through  wrecks  of  time,  thy  lineage  and  thy  race ; 
Declare  what  lovely  squaw  in  days  of  yore 
(Ere  great  Columbus  sought  thy  native  shore) 
First  gave  thee  to  the  world  ;  her  works  of  fame 
Have  lived  indeed,  but  lived  without  a  name. 
Some  tawny  Ceres,  goddess  of  her  days, 
First  learned  with  stones  to  crack  the  well-dried  maze, 
Through  the  rough  sieve  to  shake  the  golden  shower, 
In  boiling  water  stir  the  yellow  flour : 
The  yellow  flour,  bestrewed  and  stirred  with  haste, 
Swells  in  the  flood  and  thickens  to  a  paste, 
Then  puffs  and  wallops,  rises  to  the  brim, 
Drinks  the  dry  knobs  that  on  the  surface  swim  ; 
The  knobs  at  last  the  busy  ladle  breaks, 
And  the  whole  mass  its  true  consistence  takes. 

Could  but  her  sacred  name,  unknown  so  long, 
Rise,  like  her  labors,  to  the  son  of  song, 
To  her,  to  them,  I'd  consecrate  my  lays, 
And  blow  her  pudding  with  the  breath  of  praise. 
If  'twas  Oella,  whom  I  sang  before, 
I  here  ascribe  her  one  great  virtue  more. 
Not  through  the  rich  Peruvian  realms  alone 
The  fame  of  Sol's  sweet  daughter  should  be  known, 
But  o'er  the  world's  wide  clime  should  live  secure, 
Far  as  his  rays  extend,  as  long  as  they  endure. 

Dear  Hasty  Pudding,  what  unpromised  joy 
Expands  my  heart,  to  meet  thee  in  Savoy  ! 
Doomed  o'er  the  world  through  devious  paths  to  roam, 
Each  clime  my  country,  and  each  house  my  home, 
My  soul  is  soothed,  my  cares  have  found  an  end, 
I  greet  my  long-lost,  unforgotten  friend. 

For  thee  through  Paris,  that  corrupted  town, 
How  long  in  vain  I  wandered  up  and  down, 
Where  shameless  Bacchus,  with  his  drenching  hoard, 
Cold  from  his  cave  usurps  the  morning  board. 
London  is  lost  in  smoke  and  steeped  in  tea ; 
No  Yankee  there  can  lisp  the  name  of  thee ; 


62  LITERATURE  OP  AU,  NATIONS. 

The  uncouth  word,  a  libel  on  the  town, 
Would  call  a  proclamation  from  the  crown. 
Those  climes  oblique,  that  fear  the  sun's  full  rays, 
Chilled  in  their  fogs,  exclude  the  generous  maize ; 
A  grain,  whose  rich,  luxuriant  growth  requires 
Short,  gentle  showers,  and  bright,  ethereal  fires. 

But  here,  though  distant  from  our  native  shore, 
With  mutual  glee  we  meet  and  laugh  once  more ; 
The  same  !  I  know  thee  by  that  yellow  face, 
That  strong  complexion  of  true  Indian  race, 
Which  time  can  never  change,  nor  soil  impair, 
Nor  Alpine  snows,  nor  Turkey's  morbid  air ; 
For  endless  years,  through  every  mild  domain, 
Where  grows  the  maize,  there  thou  art  sure  to  reign. 

But  man,  more  fickle,  the  bold  license  claims 
In  different  realms  to  give  thee  different  names 
Thee  the  soft  nations  round  the  warm  Levant 
Polenta  call,  the  French,  of  course,  Polente. 
E'en  in  thy  native  regions,  how  I  blush 
To  hear  the  Pennsylvanians  call  thee  Mush  ! 
On  Hudson's  banks  while  men  of  Belgic  spawn 
Insult  and  eat  thee  by  the  name  Suppawn  ! 
All  spurious  appellations,  void  of  truth ; 
I've  better  known  thee  from  my  earliest  youth. 
Thy  name  is  Hasty  Pudding ;  thus  my  sire 
Was  wont  to  greet  thee  fuming  from  his  fire; 
And,  while  he  argued  in  thy  just  defence 
With  logic  clear,  he  thus  explained  the  sense : 
"In  haste  the  boiling  caldron,  o'er  the  blaze, 
Receives  and  cooks  the  ready  powdered  maize ; 
In  haste  'tis  served,  and  then  in  equal  haste> 
With  cooling  milk,  we  make  the  sweet  repast. 
No  carving  to  be  done,  no  knife  to  grate 
The  tender  ear  and  wound  the  stony  plate ; 
But  the  smooth  spoon,  just  fitted  to  the  lip, 
And  taught  with  art  the  yielding  mass  to  dip, 
By  frequent  journeys  to  the  bowl  well  stored, 
Performs  the  hasty  honors  of  the  board." 
Such  is  thy  name,  significant  and  clear, 
A  name,  a  sound,  to  every  Yankee  dear, 
But  most  to  me,  whose  heart  and  plate  chaste 
Preserve  my  pure  hereditary  taste. 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE. 

PERIOD  III.— NATIONAL.    1800-1870. 


MERICAN  literature  could  not  properly  exist  until 
the  American  nation  had  entered  on  its  inde- 
pendent career.  During  the  colonial  period 
the  people  were  occupied  in  subduing  the  wil- 
derness and  adapting  themselves  to  new  condi- 
tions of  life.  Few  but  the  scholarly  preachers 
of  the  gospel  had  inclination  or  leisure  for  writing,  and  the 
chief  printed  productions  of  the  times  were  religious  and 
theological.  For  books  of  other  kinds  the  people  looked  to 
the  mother  country.  In  the  Revolutionary  period  questions 
of  human  rights  and  government  were  urgent  and  drew  forth 
treatises  of  marked  ability.  Yet  there  were  some  evidences 
of  literary  activity  in  other  directions.  Newspapers,  now 
struggling  into  existence,  furnished  a  ready  means  for  circu- 
lating satires  and  occasional  verses. 

With  the  beginning  of  the  new  century  the  turbulence  of 
war  had  ceased,  a  stable  government  was  formed,  and  the 
minds  of  Americans  were  turned  from  their  former  depend- 
ence on  the  writers  of  England.  There  came  an  original  tone 
of  thought,  a  deep  reflection  on  the  new  aspects  of  the  world, 
a  wholesome  independence  of  mind.  For  a  time  Philadelphia 
seemed  likely  to  become  the  literary  centre,  as  it  was  the  cap- 
ital, of  the  nation.  Charles  Brockden  Brown  was  the  first 
American  novelist,  and  Joseph  Dennie,  the  editor  of  the  Port- 
folio, was  hailed  as  the  American  Addison,  but  his  writings 
are  now  forgotten.  Philadelphia  continued  to  be  the  place  of 

63 


64  LITERATURE  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

publication  even  for  New  England  authors,  and  Graham's 
Magazine  was  the  medium  through  which  Longfellow  and 
others  reached  the  public. 

But  the  pioneers  of  the  new  era  of  American  literature 
belonged  to  New  York,  if  not  by  birth,  by  choice  of  resi- 
dence. Three  men  stand  forth  as  representatives  of  this 
class — Irving,  Cooper  and  Bryant.  Widely  different  in  their 
nature  and  training,  as  in  their  finished  work,  they  were  yet 
all  distinctively  American.  The  cheerful  Irving  began  as  a 
playful  satirist  and  delineator  of  oddities,  and  became  a  skill- 
ful sketcher  of  the  pleasant  features  of  merry  England  and 
picturesque  Spain,  as  well  as  of  his  beloved  Hudson.  In 
much  of  his  work  he  exhibits  the  contrast  of  the  past  with 
the  present,  producing  sometimes  humorous,  and  sometimes 
pathetic  scenes.  Cooper  belonged  to  that  lake  region  of  New 
York  where  the  Indians  and  whites  came  into  closest  contact 
and  unequal  conflict.  He  revealed  to  Europe  the  romance  of 
the  American  forest.  Again,  as  an  officer  in  the  navy,  he 
acquired  such  familiarity  with  sea-life,  as  to  make  him  the 
foremost  sea-novelist  of  the  language.  Excellent  in  descrip- 
tion and  well  furnished  with  material,  he  yet  rated  his  own 
abilities  too  highly,  and  wrote  much  which  may  readily  be 
neglected.  Bryant  early  displayed  his  power  as  a  meditative 
poet  on  nature,  but  the  duties  of  active  life  summoned  him  to 
quite  different  work  in  New  York  City.  As  editor  of  a  daily 
newspaper,  he  battled  strenuously  and  honorably  for  right- 
eousness until  in  old  age  he  received  the  loving  veneration  of 
his  fellow-citizens.  But  in  literature  he  remains  the  author 
of  "  Thanatopsis  "  and  a  translator  of  Homer. 

The  influence  of  Harvard  College  as  a  promoter  of  learn- 
ing tended  to  give  Boston  a  supremacy  in  literature.  Here 
the  North  American  Review  was  early  established,  and  the 
study  of  German  and  other  foreign  literatures  was  promoted. 
The  Unitarian  movement,  apart  from  its  theological  effects, 
had  a  distinct  uplifting  effect  on  American  culture.  Chan- 
ning  and  Emerson,  L/ongfellow  and  L,owell,  assisted,  each  in 
his  own  way,  in  broadening  and  elevating  the  minds  of  *heir 
countrymen.  As  an  outgrowth  of  this  humanitarian  tendency 
came  the  anti-slavery  movement,  which  stirred  some  of  these 


AMERICAN  UTERATURB.  65 

writers  to  passionate  outbursts,  but  could  not  draw  them 
from  their  literary  pursuits.  At  a  later  period,  the  civil  war 
left  a  more  lasting  impression  on  their  characters  and  work, 
yet  when  it  had  passed,  the  survivors  made  still  nobler  con- 
tributions to  literature.  Whittier,  the  Quaker  poet  and 
anti-slavery  lyrist,  wrote  the  most  popular  ballad  of  the  war, 
and  afterwards  showed  his  best  art  in  peaceful  themes.  So 
also  Mrs.  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe  was  able  to  present  the 
wrongs  of  slavery  in  a  popular  romance,  and  thus  urge  on  the 
war,  yet  later  contented  herself  with  mild  pictures  of  domestic 
life.  Apart  from  most  of  the  foregoing,  and  by  a  method 
peculiarly  his  own,  Hawthorne  studied  the  spiritual  facts  of 
New  England  life,  and  unveiled  its  mysteries  and  romance. 
Others  more  quickly  won  recognition ;  his  subtler  genius 
required  longer  time  for  correct  appreciation.  Gradually  his 
true  worth  has  been  discerned,  and  now  he  is  acknowledged 
to  be  the  chief  representative  of  American  romance. 

In  remarkable  contrast  with  Hawthorne  in  life  and  char- 
acter and  work  stands  the  brilliantly  gifted,  but  miserably 
unfortunate,  Edgar  A.  Poe.  He  not  only  proved  himself  the 
greatest  metrical  artist  of  the  English  language,  weaving 
words  into  music  at  his  pleasure,  but  he  was  the  skillful  pro- 
ducer of  weird  romances  and  cunningly  devised  tales,  usually 
gloomy  and  terrible,  sometimes  extravagant.  His  erratic 
course  and  untimely  death  have  drawn  the  pity  of  the  world. 
His  melodious  verses  have  been  models  for  Tennyson  and 
Swinburne,  as  well  as  French  poets.  W.  G.  Simms  was  the 
prolific  romancist  of  the  South,  seeking  to  rival  Cooper  in 
the  delineation  of  the  Indians,  and  in  reproducing  the  Revo- 
lutionary scenes  of  his  native  State. x  John  P.  Kennedy  wrote 
also  a  novel  of  the  Revolution,  and  sketched  country  life  in 
Virginia. 

Of  American  poets  Longfellow  has  been  the  most  popular, 
partly  from  his  choice  of  subjects  easily  understood  by  all} 
and  partly  from  his  artistic  treatment  of  them.  His  sympa- 
thetic heart  and  his  generous  culture  have  enabled  him  to 
give  adequate  expression  to  the  common  human  emotions. 

Lowell  is  distinctly  the  most  cultured  of  American  poets, 
and  has  excelled  as  essayist  and  critic.  Yet  he  has  not 
ix— 5 


66  UTERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

reached  the  popularity  of  L,ongfellow  or  Whittier,  and  is  per- 
haps most  widely  known  as  a  humorist  and  writer  of  Yankee 
dialect.  In  his  later  years  he  was  a  noble  representative  of 
America  in  foreign  courts. 

Dr.  O.  W.  Holmes  was  noted  as  a  skillful  writer  of  occa- 
sional verses  before  his  peculiar  merits  as  a  prose-writer  were 
displayed  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly.  Here  his  u  Autocrat  of 
the  Breakfast-Table  "  was  a  brilliant  combination  of  humor, 
satire  and  scholarship,  and  interspersed  were  some  of  his  best 
poems.  He  was  devoted  to  Boston,  which  he  celebrated  as 
"  the  hub  of  the  solar  system. " 

The  size  of  the  present  work  has  not  afforded  sufficient 
room  for  the  adequate  treatment  of  history  and  historians. 
But  the  work  of  Americans  in  this  department  must  at  least 
be  mentioned,  as  they  have  attained  special  fame  and  are 
truly  representative  of  the  country.  William  H.  Prescott 
(1796-1859),  in  spite  of  the  affliction  of  blindness,  devoted  his 
life  to  historical  studies,  and  produced  standard  works  on 
the  history  of  Spain,  Mexico,  and  Peru.  Written  in  a  stately 
and  dignified  style,  they  have  stood  the  test  of  time  and  the 
investigation  of  later  students.  George  Bancroft  ( 1 800- 1 89 1 ), 
after  studying  in  German  universities  and  teaching  a  classical 
school  in  Massachusetts,  undertook  to  prepare  an  exhaustive 
history  of  the  United  States  down  to  the  adoption  of  the  Con- 
stitution. The  many  public  positions,  which  he  held,  partly 
helped  and  partly  hindered  the  completion  of  his  great  work. 
Almost  fifty  years  elapsed  before  the  twelfth  and  final  vol- 
ume appeared.  While  the  whole  forms  a  lasting  monu- 
ment to  the  author's  industry,  its  very  length  has  prevented 
it  from  attaining  the  highest  success. 

Most  successful  in  securing  popular  attention  and  ap- 
plause was  John  lyothrop  Motley  (1814-77),  who,  after  ten 
years  of  patient  research,  published  in  1856,  "The  Rise  and 
Fall  of  the  Dutch  Republic. ' '  Other  works  connected  with 
the  history  of  the  Netherlands  occupied  his  later  years,  ex- 
cept so  far  as  he  was  engaged  in  diplomatic  service.  His 
thorough  mastery  of  his  subject  and  his  power  of  pictorial 
presentation  of  the  past  make  vivid  the  men  and  events  of  a 
critical  period  in  European  history. 


WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


WASHINGTON  IRVING  was  born  in  New  York  city  in  1783 
and  died  in  1859,  at  the  a£e  °f  seventy-six.  His  books  are 
still  so  popular,  and  in  feeling  so  modern,  that  it  is  hard  to 
realize  that  his  birth  immediately  followed  the  close  of  the 
Revolution,  and  that  he  did  not  see  even  the  beginnings  of 
the  present  generation.  To  read  some  of  his  stories,  one 
might  think  they  were  written  yesterday — were  there  any 
one  competent  to  write  them. 

He  was  the  son  of  a  rigid  Scotch  Presbyterian  and  of  a 
gentle  English  woman ;  his  childhood  and  youth  were  deli- 
cate, but  his  enjoyment  of  life  was  unfailing,  and  the  indul- 
gence which  he  always  received  never  hurt  him.  His  aspect 
and  manners  were  refined,  graceful  and  charming  ;  by  organ- 
ization he  was  an  aristocrat,  though  he  was  democratic  in 
intention.  At  the  outset  of  his  career  he  amused  himself  in 
society,  and  satirized  it  in  good-natured  sketches  in  the  Spec- 
tator vein,  as  the  pages  of  the  brilliant  but  short-lived  Salma- 
gundi still  bear  witness.  His  first  important  work  was  the 
famous  "Knickerbocker's  History  of  New  York,"  a  permanent 
piece  of  humor,  the  fairy  godchild,  so  to  say,  of  Rabelais 
and  Swift.  The  author  went  to  Europe  for  a  pleasure  trip. 
In  the  midst  of  his  social  successes  in  L,ondon  the  firm  with 
which  he  was  connected  failed,  and  he  turned  to  literature, 
which  hitherto  had  been  the  diversion  of  his  leisure,  as  the 
means  of  livelihood.  In  1819,  Washington,  then  six-and- 
thirty,  sat  seriously  down  and  produced  the  book  of  tales 
called  uThe  Sketch  Book,"  containing  that  "primal  story" 
— "  Rip  Van  Winkle."  His  success  was  immediate,  great  and 

6? 


68  UTKRATURE  OF  AIJ,  NATIONS. 

lasting ;  but  he  was  too  modest  to  admit  that  it  could  be  fully 
deserved.  He  remained  alone  in  that  opinion  ;  his  work  was 
like  himself,  and,  like  himself,  was  nearly  perfect  in  its 
degree.  During  the  forty  remaining  years  of  his  life  he 
continued  to  delight  his  contemporaries  and  build  up  his 
fortunes  with  imaginative  and  historical  work,  much  of  it 
with  a  Spanish  background.  From  1826  to  1829  he  lived 
in  Spain  writing  "The  Alahambra,"  the  "L,ife  of  Colum- 
bus," and  other  books.  In  the  latter  year  he  returned  to 
London  as  secretary  of  legation ;  but  two  years  later  home- 
sickness brought  him  back  to  New  York  and  he  fixed  his 
residence  at  Sunnyside.  During  the  next  ten  years  he  wrote 
five  volumes  on  American  and  English  subjects,  of  which 
the  collection  of  tales,  "  Wolfert's  Roost,"  is  the  best  known. 
In  1842  he  was  appointed  American  Minister  to  Spain,  and 
the  duties  of  his  office  chiefly  occupied  him  during  his  four 
years'  sojourn  at  Madrid.  On  his  return  home  he  began  the 
"Life  of  Washington,"  which  was  the  chief  work  of  his  de- 
clining life,  the  last  volume  appearing  in  the  year  of  his  death. 

Irving' s  personal  character  and  history  were  as  delightful 
as  are  his  works.  His  mental  constitution  was  serene  and 
harmonious  ;  nothing  was  in  excess  ;  he  was  at  peace  with 
himself  and  optimistic  towards  the  world  ;  he  had  no  theories 
to  ventilate,  and  was  averse  to  contentions  and  strife  of  every 
kind.  The  easy  amiability  of  his  nature  and  his  strong 
social  tendencies  might  have  formed  an  element  of  weakness, 
had  he  not  been  assailed  and  strengthened  by  bereavement 
and  misfortune,  which  developed  the  man  in  him.  The  girl 
to  whom  he  was  betrothed  died,  and  he  lived  a  bachelor  all 
his  life.  Irving  was  manly  with  men  ;  with  women,  refined 
and  chivalrous;  and  sincere  and  sane  in  literature.  He  re- 
garded his  species  with  a  humorous  tenderness  ;  saw  the  good 
and  slighted  the  evil  in  life;  hence  sunshine,  abiding,  but  not 
intense,  radiates  from  all  he  wrote. 

Altogether  nearly  a  third  of  Irving' s  life  was  passed 
abroad,  where  he  was  as  much  loved  and  appreciated  as 
here.  But  no  more  patriotic  American  lived  than  he.  In 
him  the  human  and  the  literary  instincts  made  a  rounded 
whole.  His  style  is  clear,  easy  and  flexible  ;  his  standpoint, 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  69 

tranquil ;  his  humor,  ever  smiling ;  his  pathos,  true  ;  his  sen- 
timent, sometimes  thin,  but  never  sickly.  The  generous 
impulses  and  moral  beauty  of  his  character  warm  and  vitalize 
his  work.  So  long  as  taste,  repose,  and  simplicity  please  the 
mind,  Irving' s  contribution  to  our  literature  will  be  remem- 
bered and  valued. 


DEATH  OF  PETER  STUYVESANT. 

(From  "Knickerbocker's  History  of  New  York.") 

IN  process  of  time,  the  old  governor,  like  all  other  chil- 
dren of  mortality,  began  to  exhibit  tokens  of  decay.  Like 
an  aged  oak,  which,  though  it  long  has  braved  the  fury  of 
the  elements,  and  still  retains  its  gigantic  proportions,  yet 
begins  to  shake  and  groan  with  every  blast — so  was  it  with 
the  gallant  Peter ;  for,  though  he  still  bore  the  port  and  sem- 
blance of  what  he  was  in  the  days  of  his  hardihood  and 
chivalry,  yet  did  age  and  infirmity  begin  to  sap  the  vigor  of 
his  frame — but  his  heart,  that  most  unconquerable  citadel, 
still  triumphed  unsubdued.  With  matchless  avidity  would 
he  listen  to  every  article  of  intelligence  concerning  the  battles 
between  the  English  and  Dutch — still  would  his  pulse  beat 
high  whenever  he  heard  of  the  victories  of  De  Ruyter — 
and  his  countenance  lower,  and  his  eyebrows  knit,  when  for- 
tune turned  in  favor  of  the  English.  At  length,  as  on  a  cer- 
tain day  he  had  just  smoked  his  fifth  pipe,  and  was  napping 
after  dinner  in  his  arm-chair,  conquering  the  whole  British 
nation  in  his  dreams,  he  was  suddenly  aroused  by  a  fearful 
ringing  of  bells,  rattling  of  drums,  and  roaring  of  cannon, 
that  put  all  his  blood  in  a  ferment.  But  when  he  learnt  that 
these  rejoicings  were  in  honor  of  a  great  victory  obtained  by 
the  combined  English  and  French  fleets  over  the  brave  De 
Ruyter  and  the  younger  Von  Tromp,  it  went  so  much  to  his 
heart  that  he  took  to  his  bed,  and  in  less  than  three  days  was 
brought  to  death's  door  by  a  violent  cholera  morbus  !  But, 
even  in  this  extremity,  he  still  displayed  the  unconquerable 
spirit  of  Peter  the  Headstrong ;  holding  out  to  the  last  gasp 
with  the  most  inflexible  obstinacy  against  a  whole  army  of 
old  women^  who  were  bent  upon  driving  the  enemy  out  of  his 


70  UTERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

bowels,  after  a  true  Dutch  mode  of  defence,  by  inundating 
the  seat  of  war  with  catnip  and  pennyroyal. 

While  he  thus  lay,  lingering  on  the  verge  of  dissolution, 
news  was  brought  to  him  that  the  brave  De  Ruyter  had  suf- 
fered but  little  loss — had  made  good  his  retreat — and  meant 
once  more  to  meet  the  enemy  in  battle.  The  closing  eye  of 
the  old  warrior  kindled  at  the  words — he  partly  raised  himself 
in  bed — a  flash  of  martial  fire  beamed  across  his  visage — he 
clinched  his  withered  hand,  as  if  he  felt  within  his  gripe  that 
sword  which  waved  in  triumph  before  the  walls  of  Fort  Chris- 
tina, and,  giving  a  grim  smile  of  exultation,  sunk  back  upon 
his  pillow  and  expired. 

Thus  died  Peter  Stuyvesant,  a  valiant  soldier — a  loyal 
subject — an  upright  governor,  and  an  honest  Dutchman — 
who  wanted  only  a  few  empires  to  desolate  to  have  been 
immortalized  as  a  hero  ! 

His  funeral  obsequies  were  celebrated  with  the  utmost 
grandeur  and  solemnity.  The  town  was  perfectly  emptied  of 
its  inhabitants,  who  crowded  in  throngs  to  pay  the  last  sad 
honors  to  their  good  old  governor.  All  his  sterling  qualities 
rushed  in  full  tide  upon  their  recollections,  while  the  memory 
of  his  foibles  and  his  faults  had  expired  with  him.  The  an- 
cient burghers  contended  who  should  have  the  privilege  of 
bearing  the  pall ;  the  populace  strove  who  should  walk  nearest 
to  the  bier — and  the  melancholy  procession  was  closed  by  a 
number  of  gray-headed  negroes,  who  had  wintered  and  sum- 
mered in  the  household  of  their  departed  master  for  the  greater 
part  of  a  century. 

With  sad  and  gloomy  countenances  the  multitude  gathered 
around  the  grave.  They  dwelt  with  mournful  hearts  on  the 
sturdy  virtues,  the  signal  services,  and  the  gallant  exploits  of 
the  brave  old  worthy.  They  recalled  with  secret  upbraidings 
their  own  factious  opposition  to  his  government — and  many 
an  ancient  burgher,  whose  phlegmatic  features  had  never  been 
known  to  relax,  nor  his  eyes  to  moisten — was  now  observed 
to  puff  a  pensive  pipe,  and  the  big  drop  to  steal  down  his 
cheek — while  he  muttered  with  affectionate  accent  and  melan- 
choly shake  of  the  head — "  Well  den! — Hardkoppig  Peter  ben 
gone  at  last ! " 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE. 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE'S  RETURN. 

On  waking,  Rip  found  himself  on  the  green  knoll  from 
whence  he  had  first  seen  the  old  man  of  the  glen.  He  rubbed 
his  eyes — it  was  a  bright  sunny  morning.  The  birds  were 
hopping  and  twittering  among  the  bushes,  and  the  eagle  was 
wheeling  aloft,  and  breasting  the  pure  mountain  breeze. 
"Surely,"  thought  Rip,  "I  have  not  slept  here  all  night." 
He  recalled  the  occurrences  before  he  fell  asleep.  The 
strange  man  with  the  keg  of  liquor — the  mountain  ravine — 
the  wild  retreat  among  the  rocks — the  woe-begone  party  at 
nine-pins — the  flagon — uOh!  that  wicked  flagon  !  n  thought 
Rip — u  what  excuse  shall  I  make  to  Dame  Van  Winkle? n 

He  looked  round  for  his  gun,  but  in  place  of  the  clean 
well-oiled  fowling-piece,  he  found  an  old  fire-lock  lying  by 
him,  the  barrel  encrusted  with  rust,  the  lock  falling  off,  and 
the  stock  worm-eaten.  He  now  suspected  that  the  grave 
roysterers  of  the  mountain  had  put  a  trick  upon  him,  and 
having  dosed  him  with  liquor,  had  robbed  him  of  his  gun. 
Wolf,  too,  had  disappeared,  but  he  might  have  strayed  away 
after  a  squirrel  or  partridge.  He  whistled  after  him,  and 
shouted  his  name,  but  all  in  vain  ;  the  echoes  repeated  his 
whistle  and  shout,  but  no  dog  was  to  be  seen. 

He  determined  to  revisit  the  scene  of  the  last  evening's 
gambol,  and  if  he  met  with  any  of  the  party,  to  demand  his 
dog  and  gun.  As  he  rose  to  walk,  he  found  himself  stiff  in 
the  joints,  and  wanting  in  his  usual  activity.  "  These 
mountain  beds  do  not  agree  with  me,"  thought  Rip,  "and  if 
this  frolic  should  lay  me  up  with  a  fit  of  the  rheumatism,  I 
shall  have  a  blessed  time  with  Dame  Van  Winkle."  With 
some  difficulty  he  got  down  into  the  glen  ;  he  found  the  gully 
up  which  he  and  his  companion  had  ascended  the  preceding 
evening ;  but  to  his  astonishment  a  mountain  stream  was  now 
foaming  down  it,  leaping  from  rock  to  rock,  and  filling  the 
glen  with  babbling  murmurs.  He,  however,  made  shift  to 
scramble  up  its  sides,  working  his  toilsome  way  through 
thickets  of  birch,  sassafras,  and  witch-hazel ;  and  sometimes 
tripped  up  or  entangled  by  the  wild  grape  vines  that  twisted 


72  WTERATURE  OF  AXJ<  NATIONS. 

their  coils  and  tendrils  from  tree  to  tree,  and  spread  a  kind  of 
network  in  his  path. 

At  length  he  reached  to  where  the  ravine  had  opened 
through  the  cliffs  to  the  amphitheatre  ;  but  no  traces  of  such 
opening  remained.  The  rocks  presented  a  high  impenetrable 
wall,  over  which  the  torrent  came  tumbling  in  a  sheet  of  fea- 
thery foam,  and  fell  into  a  broad  deep  basin,  black  from  the 
shadows  of  the  surrounding  forest.  Here,  then,  poor  Rip 
was  brought  to  a  stand.  He  again  called  and  whistled  after 
his  dog ;  he  was  only  answered  by  the  cawing  of  a  flock  of 
idle  crows,  sporting  high  in  air  about  a  dry  tree  that  over- 
hung a  sunny  precipice  ;  and  who,  secure  in  their  elevation, 
seemed  to  look  down  and  scoff  at  the  poor  man's  perplexities. 
What  was  to  be  done?  The  morning  was  passing  away,  and 
Rip  felt  famished  for  want  of  his  breakfast.  He  grieved  to 
give  up  his  dog  and  gun  ;  he  dreaded  to  meet  his  wife  ;  but  it 
would  not  do  to  starve  among  the  mountains.  He  shook  his 
head,  shouldered  the  rusty  firelock,  and,  with  a  heart  full  of 
trouble  and  anxiety,  turned  his  steps  homeward. 

As  he  approached  the  village,  he  met  a  number  of  people, 
but  none  whom  he  knew,  which  somewhat  surprised  him, 
for  he  had  thought  himself  acquainted  with  every  one  in  the 
country  round.  Their  dress,  too,  was  of  a  different  fashion 
from  that  to  which  he  was  accustomed.  They  all  stared  at 
him  with  equal  marks  of  surprise,  and  whenever  they  cast 
eyes  upon  him,  invariably  stroked  their  chins.  The  constant 
recurrence  of  this  gesture  induced  Rip,  involuntarily,  to  do 
the  same,  when,  to  his  astonishment,  he  found  his  beard  had 
grown  a  foot  long. 

He  had  now  entered  the  skirts  of  the  village.  A  troop  of 
strange  children  ran  at  his  heels,  hooting  after  him,  and 
pointing  at  his  gray  beard.  The  dogs,  too,  not  one  of  which 
he  recognized  for  an  old  acquaintance,  barked  at  him  as  he 
passed.  The  very  village  was  altered :  it  was  larger  and 
more  populous.  There  were  rows  of  houses  which  he  had 
never  seen  before,  and  those  which  had  been  his  familiar 
haunts  had  disappeared.  Strange  names  were  over  the  doors 
— strange  faces  at  the  windows — everything  was  strange. 
His  mind  now  misgave  him;  he  began  to  doubt  whether  both 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  73 

he  and  the  world  around  him  were  not  bewitched.  Surely 
this  was  his  native  village,  which  he  had  left  but  a  day  be- 
fore. There  stood  the  Kaatskill  mountains — there  ran  the 
silver  Hudson  at  a  distance — there  was  every  hill  and  dale 
precisely  as  it  had  always  been — Rip  was  sorely  perplexed — 
"That  flagon  last  night,"  thought  he,  "has  addled  my  poor 
head  sadly!" 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  he  found  the  way  to  his 
own  house,  which  he  approached  with  silent  awe,  expecting 
every  moment  to  hear  the  shrill  voice  of  Dame  Van  Winkle. 
He  found  the  house  gone  to  decay — the  roof  fallen  in,  the 
windows  shattered,  and  the  doors  off  the  hinges.  A  half- 
starved  dog,  that  looked  like  Wolf,  was  skulking  about  it. 
Rip  called  him  by  name,  but  the  cur  snarled,  showed  his 
teeth,  and  passed  on.  This  was  an  unkind  cut  indeed. — 
"My  very  dog,"  sighed  poor  Rip,  "has  forgotten  me!" 

He  entered  the  house,  which,  to  tell  the  truth,  Dame  Van 
Winkle  had  always  kept  in  neat  order.  It  was  empty,  for- 
lorn, and  apparently  abandoned.  This  desolateness  over- 
came all  his  connubial  fears — he  called  loudly  for  his  wife 
and  children — the  lonely  chambers  rang  for  a  moment  with 
his  voice,  and  then  all  again  was  silence. 

He  now  hurried  forth,  and  hastened  to  his  old  resort, 
the  village  inn — but  it  too  was  gone.  A  large  rickety  wooden 
building  stood  in  its  place,  with  great  gaping  windows,  some 
of  them  broken,  and  mended  with  old  hats  and  petticoats, 
and  over  the  door  was  painted,  u  The  Union  Hotel,  by  Jona- 
than Doolittle."  Instead  of  the  great  tree  that  used  to  shel- 
ter the  quiet  little  Dutch  inn  of  yore,  there  now  was  reared 
a  tall  naked  pole,  with  something  on  the  top  that  looked  like 
a  red  night-cap,  and  from  it  was  fluttering  a  flag,  on  which 
was  a  singular  assemblage  of  stars  and  stripes — all  this  was 
strange  and  incomprehensible.  He  recognized  on  the  sign, 
however,  the  ruby  face  of  King  George,  under  which  he  had 
smoked  so  many  a  peaceful  pipe,  but  even  this  was  singularly 
metamorphosed.  The  red  coat  was  changed  for  one  of  blue 
and  buff,  a  sword  was  held  in  the  hand  instead  of  a  sceptre, 
the  head  was  decorated  with  a  cocked  hat,  and  underneath 
was  painted  in  large  characters,  GENERAL  WASHINGTON. 


74  WTERATURB  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

There  was,  as  usual,  a  crowd  of  folk  about  the  door,  but 
none  that  Rip  recollected.  The  very  character  of  the  people 
seemed  changed.  There  was  a  busy,  bustling,  disputatious 
tone  about  it,  instead  of  the  accustomed  phlegm  and  drowsy 
tranquillity.  He  looked  in  vain  for  the  sage  Nicholas  Vedder, 
with  his  broad  face,  double  chin,  and  fair  long  pipe,  uttering 
clouds  of  tobacco  smoke,  instead  of  idle  speeches;  or  Van 
Bummel,  the  schoolmaster,  doling  forth  the  contents  of  an 
ancient  newspaper.  "  In  place  of  these  a  lean,  bilious-looking 
fellow,  with  his  pockets  full  of  handbills,  was  haranguing  ve- 
hemently about  the  rights  of  citizens — election — members  of 
Congress — liberty — Bunker's  hill — heroes  of  seventy-six— and 
other  words,  that  were  a  perfect  Babylonish  jargon  to  the  be- 
wildered Van  Winkle. 

The  appearance  of  Rip,  with  his  long,  grizzled  beard,  his 
rusty  fowling-piece,  his  uncouth  dress,  and  the  army  of  wo- 
men and  children  that  had  gathered  at  his  heels,  soon  at- 
tracted the  attention  of  the  tavern  politicians.  They  crowded 
round  him,  eyeing  him  from  head  to  foot,  with  great  curiosity. 
The  orator  bustled  up  to  him,  and  drawing  him  partly  aside, 
inquired,  uon  which  side  he  voted  ?"  Rip  stared  in  vacant 
stupidity.  Another  short  but  busy  little  fellow  pulled  him 
by  the  arm,  and  rising  on  tiptoe,  inquired  in  his  ear,  "whether 
he  was  Federal  or  Democrat. ' '  Rip  was  equally  at  a  loss  to 
comprehend  the  question ;  when  a  knowing,  self-important 
old  gentleman,  in  a  sharp  cocked  hat,  made  his  way  through 
the  crowd,  putting  them  to  the  right  and  left  with  his  elbows 
as  he  passed,  and  planting  himself  before  Van  Winkle,  with 
one  arm  a-kimbo,  the  other  resting  on  his  cane,  his  keen 
eyes  and  sharp  hat  penetrating,  as  it  were,  into  his  very  soul, 
demanded  in  an  austere  tone,  "  what  brought  him  to  the  elec- 
tion with  a  gun  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  mob  at  his  heels,  and 
whether  he  meant  to  breed  a  riot  in  the  village?'* 

"  Alas!  gentlemen,"  cried  Rip,  somewhat  dismayed,  "  I  am 
a  poor,  quiet  man,  a  native  of  the  place,  and  a  loyal  subject 
of  the  King,  God  bless  him!" 

Here  a  general  shout  burst  from  the  bystanders — "A  tory! 
a  tory!  a  spy!  a  refugee!  hustle  him!  away  with  him!" 

It  was  with  great  difficulty  that  the  self-important  man 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  75 

in  the  cocked  hat  restored  order ;  and  having  assumed  a  ten- 
fold austerity  of  brow,  demanded  again  of  the  unknown  culprit^ 
what  he  came  there  for,  and  whom  he  was  seeking.  The  poor 
man  humbly  assured  him  that  he  meant  no  harm,  but  merely 
came  there  in  search  of  some  of  his  neighbors,  who  used  to 
keep  about  the  tavern. 

"  Well — who  are  they  ? — name  them. ' ' 

Rip  bethought  himself  a  moment,  and  inquired,  "  Where's 
Nicholas  Vedder?" 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  little  while,  when  an  old  man 
replied,  in  a  thin,  piping  voice,  "Nicholas  Vedder?  why,  he 
is  dead  and  gone  these  eighteen  years.  There  was  a  wooden 
tomb-stone  in  the  church-yard  that  used  to  tell  all  about  him, 
but  that's  rotten  and  gone  too." 

"Where's  Brom  Butcher?" 

"  Oh,  he  went  off  to  the  army  in  the  beginning  of  the  war; 
some  say  he  was  killed  at  the  storming  of  Stony  Point — others 
say  he  was  drowned  in  the  squall,  at  the  foot  of  Antony's 
Nose.  I  don't  know — he  never  came  back  again." 

"  Where's  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster?" 

"  He  went  off  to  the  wars,  too ;  was  a  great  militia  general 
and  is  now  in  Congress." 

Rip's  heart  died  away,  at  hearing  of  these  sad  changes  in 
his  home  and  friends,  and  finding  himself  thus  alone  in  the 
world.  Every  answer  puzzled  him,  too,  by  treating  of  such 
enormous  lapses  of  time,  and  of  matters  which  he  could  not 
understand  :  war — Congress — Stony  Point ! — he  had  no  cour- 
age to  ask  after  any  more  friends,  but  cried  out  in  despair, 
"  Does  nobody  here  know  Rip  Van  Winkle?" 

"  Oh,  Rip  Van  Winkle!  "  exclaimed  two  or  three.  uOh 
to  be  sure !  that's  Rip  Van  Winkle  yonder,  leaning  against 
the  tree." 

Rip  looked  and  beheld  a  precise  counterpart  of  himself  as 
he  went  up  the  mountain  ;  apparently  as  lazy,  and  certainly 
as  ragged.  The  poor  fellow  was  now  completely  confounded. 
He  doubted  his  own  identity,  and  whether  he  was  himself  or 
another  man.  In  the  midst  of  his  bewilderment,  the  man  in 
the  cocked  hat  demanded  who  he  was,  and  what  was  his  name? 

"God  knows,"  exclaimed  he,  at  his  wit's  end;  "I'm  not 


76 


LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 


myself — I'm  somebody  else — that's  me  yonder — no — that's 
somebody  else,  got  into  my  shoes — I  was  myself  last  night, 
but  I  fell  asleep  on  the  mountain,  and  they've  changed  my 
gun,  and  everything's  changed,  and  I'm  changed,  and  I  can't 
tell  what's  my  name,  or  who  I  am  ! " 

ICHABOD  CRANK  AND  KATRINA  VAN  TASSEL. 

IN  this  by-place  of 
nature  there  abode, 
in  a  remote  period 
of  American  history, 
that  is  to  say,  some 
thirty  years  since,  a 
®-  worthy  wight  of  the 
name  of  Ichabod 
Crane,  who  sojourned, 
or,  as  he  expressed  it, 
"tarried,"  in  Sleepy 
Hollow,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  instructing 
the  children  of  the 
vicinity.  He  was  a 
native  of  Connecticut, 
a  State  which  supplies 
the  Union  with  pio- 
neers for  the  mind  as 
well  as  for  the  forest, 
and  sends  forth  yearly  its  legions  of  frontier  woodsmen  and 
country  schoolmasters.  The  cognomen  of  Crane  was  not  in- 
applicable to  his  person.  He  was  tall,  but  exceedingly  lank, 
with  narrow  shoulders,  long  arms  and  legs,  hands  that  dangled 
a  mile  out  of  his  sleeves,  feet  that  might  have  served  for 
shovels,  and  his  whole  frame  most  loosely  hung  together. 
His  head  was  small,  and  flat  at  top,  with  huge  ears,  large 
green  glassy  eyes,  and  a  long  snipe  nose,  so  that  it  looked 
like  a  weathercock  perched  upon  his  spindle  neck,  to  tell 
which  way  the  wind  blew.  To  see  him  striding  along  the 
profile  of  a  hill  on  a  windy  day,  with  his  clothes  bagging  and 
fluttering  about  him,  one  might  have  mistaken  him  for  the 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  77 

genius  of  famine  descending  upon  the  earth,  or  some  scare- 
crow eloped  from  a  cornfield. 

The  school-house  was  a  low  building  of  one  large  room, 
rudely  constructed  of  logs ;  the  windows  partly  glazed,  and 
partly  patched  with  leaves  of  copybooks.  It  was  most  in- 
geniously secured  at  vacant  hours,  by  a  withe  twisted  in  the 
handle  of  the  door,  and  stakes  set  against  the  window-shut- 
ters ;  so  that  though  a  thief  might  get  in  with  perfect  ease, 
he  would  find  some  embarrassment  in  getting  out ; — an  idea 
most  probably  borrowed  by  the  architect,  Yost  Van  Houten, 
from  the  mystery  of  an  eelpot.  The  school-house  stood  in  a 
rather  lonely  but  pleasant  situation,  just  at  the  foot  of  a  woody 
hill,  with  a  brook  running  close  by,  and  a  formidable  birch- 
tree  growing  at  one  end  of  it.  From  hence  the  low  murmur 
of  his  pupils'  voices,  conning  over  their  lessons,  might  be 
heard  of  a  drowsy  summer's  day,  like  the  hum  of  a  beehive ; 
interrupted  now  and  then  by  the  authoritative  voice  of  the 
master,  in  the  tone  of  menace  or  command  ;  or,  peradventure, 
by  the  appalling  sound  of  the  birch,  as  he  urged  some  tardy 
loiterer  along  the  flowery  path  of  knowledge.  Truth  to  say, 
he  was  a  conscientious  man,  that  ever  bore  in  mind  the 
golden  maxim,  "  spare  the  rod  and  spoil  the  child." — Ichabod 
Crane's  scholars  certainly  were  not  spoiled.  .  .  . 

Among  the  musical  disciples  who  assembled,  one  evening 
in  each  week,  to  receive  his  instructions  in  psalmody,  was 
Katrina  Van  Tassel,  the  daughter  and  only  child  of  a  sub- 
stantial Dutch  farmer.  She  was  a  blooming  lass  of  fresh 
eighteen,  plump  as  a  partridge ;  ripe  and  melting  and  rosy- 
cheeked  as  one  of  her  father's  peaches,  and  universally  famed, 
not  merely  for  her  beauty,  but  her  vast  expectations.  She 
was  withal  a  little  of  a  coquette,  as  might  be  perceived  even 
in  her  dress,  which  was  a  mixture  of  ancient  and  modern 
fashions,  as  most  suited  to  set  off  her  charms.  She  wore  the 
ornaments  of  pure  yellow  gold,  which  her  great-great-grand- 
mother had  brought  over  from  Saardam  ;  the  tempting  stom- 
acher of  the  olden  time,  and  withal  a  provokingly  short 
petticoat,  to  display  the  prettiest  foot  and  ankle  in  the 
country  round. 

Ichabod  Crane  had  a  soft  and  foolish  heart  toward  the  sex ; 


78  UTERATURE  OF  AU<  NATIONS. 

and  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  that  so  tempting  a  morsel 
soon  found  favor  in  his  eyes,  more  especially  after  he  had 
visited  her  in  her  paternal  mansion.  Old  Baltus  Van  Tassel 
was  a  perfect  picture  of  a  thriving,  contented,  liberal-hearted 
farmer.  He  seldom,  it  is  true,  sent  either  his  eyes  or  his 
thoughts  beyond  the  boundaries  of  his  own  farm  ;  but  within 
these,  everything  was  snug,  happy  and  well-conditioned.  He 
was  satisfied  with  his  wealth,  but  not  proud  of  it ;  and 
piqued  himself  upon  the  hearty  abundance,  rather  than  the 
style,  in  which  he  lived.  His  stronghold  was  situated  on  the 
banks  of  the  Hudson,  in  one  of  those  green,  sheltered,  fertile 
nooks,  in  which  the  Dutch  farmers  are  so  fond  of  nestling. 
A  great  elm-tree  spread  its  broad  branches  over  it ;  at  the  foot 
of  which  bubbled  up  a  spring  of  the  softest  and  sweetest 
water,  in  a  little  well,  formed  of  a  barrel ;  and  then  stole 
sparkling  away  through  the  grass,  to  a  neighboring  brook, 
that  babbled  along  among  alders  and  dwarf  willows.  Hard 
by  the  farm-house  was  a  vast  barn,  that  might  have  served 
for  a  church ;  every  window  and  crevice  of  which  seemed 
bursting  forth  with  the  treasures  of  the  farm ;  the  flail  was 
busily  resounding  within  it  from  morning  to  night ;  swallows 
and  martins  skimmed  twittering  about  the  eaves ;  and  rows 
of  pigeons,  some  with  one  eye  turned  up,  as  if  watching  the 
weather,  some  with  their  heads  under  their  wings,  or  buried 
jn  their  bosoms,  and  others,  swelling  and  cooing  and  bowing 
about  their  dames,  were  enjoying  the  sunshine  on  the  roof. 
Sleek,  unwieldy  porkers  were  grunting  in  the  repose  and 
abundance  of  their  pens,  from  whence  sallied  forth,  now  and 
then,  troops  of  sucking  pigs,  as  if  to  snuff  the  air.  A  stately 
squadron  of  snowy  geese  were  riding  in  an  adjoining  pond, 
convoying  whole  fleets  of  ducks ;  regiments  of  turkeys  were 
gobbling  through  the  farm-yard,  and  guinea-fowls  fretting 
about  it  like  ill-tempered  housewives,  with  their  peevish,  dis- 
contented cry.  Before  the  barn  door  strutted  the  gallant 
cock,  that  pattern  of  a  husband,  a  warrior,  and  a  fine  gentle- 
man ;  clapping  his  burnished  wings  and  crowing  in  the  pride 
and  gladness  of  his  heart — sometimes  tearing  up  the  earth 
with  his  feet,  and  then  generously  calling  his  ever-hungry 
family  of  wives  and  children  to  enjoy  his  rich  discovery. 


AMERICAN   LITERATURE.  79 

The  pedagogue's  mouth  watered,  as  he  looked  upon  this 
mimptuous  promise  of  luxurious  winter  fare.  In  his  devour- 
ing mind's  eye,  he  pictured  to  himself  every  roasting  pig 
running  about,  with  a  pudding  in  its  belly,  and  an  apple  in 
its  mouth  ;  the  pigeons  were  snugly  put  to  bed  in  a  comfort- 
able pie,  and  tucked  in  with  a  coverlet  of  crust ;  the  geese 
were  swimming  in  their  own  gravy;  and  the  ducks  pairing 
cosily  in  dishes,  like  snug  married  couples,  with  a  decent 
competency  of  onion  sauce.  In  the  porkers  he  saw  carved 
out  the  future  sleek  side  of  bacon,  and  juicy  relishing  ham  ; 
not  a  turkey,  but  he  beheld  daintily  trussed  up,  with  its  giz- 
zard under  its  wing,  and,  peradventure,  a  necklace  of  savory 
sausages  ;  and  even  bright  chanticleer  himself  lay  sprawling 
on  his  back,  in  a  side  dish,  with  uplifted  claws,  as  if  craving 
that  quarter  which  his  chivalrous  spirit  disdained  to  ask 
while  living. 

As  the  enraptured  Ichabod  fancied  all  this,  and  as  he 
rolled  his  great  green  eyes  over  the  fat  meadow  lands,  the 
rich  fields  of  wheat,  of  rye,  of  buckwheat,  and  Indian  corn,  and 
the  orchards  burthened  with  ruddy  fruit,  which  surrounded 
the  warm  tenement  of  Van  Tassel,  his  heart  yearned  after  the 
damsel  who  was  to  inherit  these  domains,  and  his  imagination 
expanded  with  the  idea,  how  they  might  be  readily  turned 
into  cash,  and  the  money  invested  in  immense  tracts  of  wild 
land,  and  shingle  palaces  in  the  wilderness.  Nay,  his  busy 
fancy  already  realized  his  hopes,  and  presented  to  him  the 
blooming  Katrina,  with  a  whole  family  of  children,  mounted 
on  the  top  of  a  wagon  loaded  with  household  trumpery,  with 
pots  and  kettles  dangling  beneath ;  and  he  beheld  himself 
bestriding  a  pacing  mare,  with  a  colt  at  her  heels,  setting  out 
for  Kentucky,  Tennessee — or  the  Lord  knows  where  ! 

When  he  entered  the  house,  the  conquest  of  his  heart  was 
complete.  It  was  one  of  those  spacious  farm-houses,  with 
high-ridged,  but  lowly-sloping  roofs,  built  in  the  style  handed 
down  from  the  first  Dutch  settlers,  the  low  projecting  eaves 
forming  a  piazza,  along  the  front,  capable  of  being  closed  up 
in  bad  weather.  Under  this  were  hung  flails,  harness,  various 
utensils  of  husbandry,  and  nets  for  fishing  in  the  neighboring 
river.  Benches  were  built  along  the  sides  for  summer  use ; 


80  UTERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

and  a  great  spinning-wheel  at  one  end,  and  a  churn  at  the 
other,  showed  the  various  uses  to  which  this  important  porch 
might  be  devoted.  From  this  piazza  the  wonderful  Ichabod 
entered  the  hall,  which  formed  the  centre  of  the  mansion,  and 
the  place  of  usual  residence.  Here,  rows  of  resplendent 
pewter,  ranged  on  a  long  dresser,  dazzled  his  eyes.  In  one 
corner  stood  a  huge  bag  of  wool,  ready  to  be  spun  ;  in  another, 
a  quantity  of  linsey-woolsey  just  from  the  loom  ;  ears  of  Indian 
corn,  and  strings  of  dried  apples  and  peaches,  hung  in  gay 
festoons  along  the  walls,  mingled  with  the  gaud  of  red  pep- 
pers; and  a  door  left  ajar,  gave  him  a  peep  into  the  best 
parlor,  where  the  claw-footed  chairs  and  dark  mahogany 
tables  shone  like  mirrors ;  andirons,  with  their  accompany- 
ing shovel  and  tongs,  glistened  from  their  covert  of  asparagus 
tops ;  mock-oranges  and  conch  shells  decorated  the  mantel- 
piece ;  strings  of  various-colored  birds'  eggs  were  suspended 
above  it ;  a  great  ostrich  egg  was  hung  from  the  centre  of  the 
room,  and  a  corner  cupboard,  knowingly  left  open,  displayed 
immense  treasures  of  old  silver  and  well-mended  china. 

From  the  moment  Ichabod  laid  his  eyes  upon  these  regions 
of  delight,  the  peace  of  his  mind  was  at  an  end,  and  his  only 
study  was  how  to  gain  the  affections  of  the  peerless  daughter 
of  Van  Tassel. 

THE  BROKEN  HEART. 

Every  one  must  recollect  the  tragical  story  of  young 
B ,  the  Irish  patriot ;  it  was  too  touching  to  be  soon  for- 
gotten. During  the  troubles  in  Ireland  he  was  tried,  con- 
demned, and  executed,  on  a  charge  of  treason.  His  fate  made 
a  deep  impression  on  public  sympathy.  He  was  so  young — 
so  intelligent — so  generous — so  brave — so  every  thing  that  we 
are  apt  to  like  in  a  young  man.  His  conduct  under  trial,  too, 
was  so  lofty  and  intrepid.  The  noble  indignation  with  which 
he  repelled  the  charge  of  treason  against  his  country — the  elo- 
quent vindication  of  his  name — and  his  pathetic  appeal  to  pos- 
terity, in  the  hopeless  hour  of  condemnation — all  these  entered 
deeply  into  every  generous  bosom,  and  even  his  enemies 
lamented  the  stern  policy  that  dictated  his  execution. 

But  there  was  one  heart  whose  anguish  it  would  be  impos- 


AMERICAN   LITERATURE.  8 1 

sible  to  describe.  In  happier  days  and  fairer  fortunes  he  had 
won  the  affections  of  a  beautiful  and  interesting  girl,  the 
daughter  of  a  late  celebrated  Irish  barrister.  She  loved  him 
with  the  disinterested  fervor  of  a  woman's  first  and  early  love. 
When  every  worldly  maxim  arrayed  itself  against  him;  when 
blasted  in  fortune,  and  disgrace  and  danger  darkened  around 
his  name,  she  loved  him  the  more  ardently  for  his  very  suffer- 
ings. If,  then,  his  fate  could  awaken  the  sympathy  even  of 
his  foes,  what  must  have  been  the  agony  of  her,  whose  whole 
soul  was  occupied  by  his  image?  L,et  those  tell  who  have 
had  the  portals  of  the  tomb  suddenly  closed  between  them  and 
the  being  they  most  loved  on  earth — who  have  sat  at  its 
threshold,  as  one  shut  out  in  a  cold  and  lonely  world,  from 
whence  all  that  was  most  lovely  and  loving  had  departed. 

But  then  the  horrors  of  such  a  grave ! — so  frightful,  so  dis- 
honored !  There  was  nothing  for  memory  to  dwell  en,  that 
could  soothe  the  pang  of  separation — none  of  those  tender, 
though  melancholy  circumstances,  that  endear  the  parting 
scene — nothing  to  melt  sorrow  into  those  blessed  tears,  sent, 
like  the  dews  of  heaven,  to  revive  the  heart  in  the  parting 
hour  of  anguish. 

To  render  her  widowed  situation  more  desolate,  she  had 
incurred  her  father's  displeasure  by  her  unfortunate  attach- 
ment, and  was  an  exile  from  the  paternal  roof.  But  could  the 
sympathy  and  kind  offices  of  friends  have  reached  a  spirit  so 
shocked  and  driven  in  by  horroi,  she  would  have  experienced 
no  want  of  consolation,  for  the  Irish  are  a  people  of  quick  and 
generous  sensibilities.  The  most  delicate  and  cherishing  at- 
tentions were  paid  her,  by  families  of  wealth  and  distinction. 
She  was  led  into  society,  and  they  tried  by  all  kinds  of  occu- 
pation and  amusement  to  dissipate  her  grief,  and  wean  her 
from  the  tragical  story  of  her  loves.  But  it  was  all  in  vain. 
There  are  some  strokes  of  calamity  that  scathe  and  scorch  the 
soul — that  penetrate  to  the  vital  seat  of  happiness — and  blast 
it,  never  again  to  put  forth  bud  or  blossom.  She  never  ob- 
jected to  frequent  the  haunts  of  pleasure,  but  she  was  as  much 
alone  there  as  in  the  depths  of  solitude.  She  walked  about  in 
a  sad  reverie,  apparently  unconscious  of  the  world  around  her. 
She  carried  with  her  an  inward  woe  that  mocked  at  all  the 
tx-4 


82  LITERATURE  OF  ALT,  NATIONS. 

blandishments  of  friendship,  and  u  heeded  not  the  song  of  the 
charmer,  charm  he  never  so  wisely." 

The  person  who  told  mer  her  story  had  seen  her  at  a  mas- 
querade. There  can  be  no  exhibition  of  far-gone  wretched- 
ness more  striking  and  painful  than  to  meet  it  in  such  a 
scene.  To  find  it  wandering  like  a  spectre,  lonely  and  joyless, 
where  all  around  is  gay — to  see  it  dressed  out  in  the  trappings 
of  mirth,  and  looking  so  wan  and  woe-begone,  as  if  it 
had  tried  in  vain  to  cheat  the  poor  heart  into  a  momentary 
forgetfulness  of  sorrow.  After  strolling  through  the  splendid 
rooms  and  giddy  crowd  with  an  air  of  utter  abstraction,  she 
sat  herself  down  on  the  steps  of  an  orchestra,  and  looking 
about  for  some  time  with  a  vacant  air,  that  showed  her  insen- 
sibility to  the  garish  scene,  she  began,  with  the  capriciousness 
of  a  sickly  heart,  to  warble  a  little  plaintive  air.  She  had  an 
exquisite  voice  ;  but  on  this  occasion  it  was  so  simple,  so 
touching — it  breathed  forth  such  a  soul  of  wretchedness — that 
she  drew  a  crowd,  mute  and  silent,  around  her,  and  melted 
every  one  into  tears. 

The  story  of  one  so  true  and  tender  could  not  but  excite 
great  interest  in  a  country  remarkable  for  enthusiasm.  It 
completely  won  the  heart  of  a  brave  officer,  who  paid  his  ad- 
dresses to  her,  and  thought  that  one  so  true  to  the  dead,  could 
not  but  prove  affectionate  to  the  living.  She  declined  his  at- 
tentions, for  her  thoughts  were  irrevocably  engrossed  by  the 
memory  of  her  former  lover.  He,  however,  persisted  in  his 
suit.  He  solicited  not  her  tenderness,  but  her  esteem.  He 
was  assisted  by  her  conviction  of  his  worth  and  her  sense  of 
her  own  destitute  and  dependent  situation,  for  she  was  exist- 
ing on  the  kindness  of  friends.  In  a  word,  he  at  length  suc- 
ceeded in  gaining  her  hand,  though  with  the  solemn  assur- 
ance, that  her  heart  was  unalterably  another's. 

He  took  her  with  him  to  Sicily,  hoping  that  a  change  of 
scene  might  wear  out  the  remembrance  of  early  woes.  She 
was  an  amiable  and  exemplary  wife,  and  made  an  effort  to  be 
a  happy  one  ;  but  nothing  could  cure  the  silent  and  devouring 
melancholy  that  had  entered  into  her  very  soul.  She  wasted 
away  in  a  slow,  but  hopeless  decline,  and  at  length  sunk  into 
the  grave,  the  victim  of  a  broken  heart. 


JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER. 


DISTINCTIVELY  American  in  theme  and  spirit  was  the 
lasting  work  of  James  Fenimore  Cooper  ;  his  attempts  to  por- 
tray European  scenes  and  characters  are  justly  neglected.  But 
he  is  still  the  most  prominent  of  American  romancers  of  the 
old  frontier  and  the  sea.  He  was  born  at  Burlington,  New 
Jersey,  September  I5th,  1789,  but  his  boyhood  was  spent  at 
Cooperstown,  New  York,  a  village  founded  by  his  father, 
Judge  Cooper,  in  1790,  when  that  portion  of  the  state  was  a 
veritable  wilderness,  inhabited  chiefly  by  Indians,  trappers 
and  pioneers.  Cooper's  early  education  was  conducted  by 
his  father,  a  man  of  strong  character  and  some  attainments, 
and  the  boy  entered  Yale  College  at  the  early  age  of  thirteen. 
Leaving  college  after  three  years  of  study,  he  entered  the 
navy  as  a  midshipman,  and  remained  in  the  service  until  a 
short  time  after  his  marriage  in  1 8 1 1 . 

Observation  and  experience  on  the  New  York  frontier  and 
in  the  naval  service  had  given  him  a  mass  of  material  avail- 
able for  fiction,  but  he  did  not  attempt  authorship  until  he 
was  thirty  years  of  age.  His  first  romance,  "  Precaution, " 
which  attempted  to  portray  polite  society,  was  a  failure.  Two 
years  later,  however,  "The  Spy,"  based  upon  experiences  of 
one  of  Washington's  secret  agents  in  New  York  during  the 
Revolutionary  War,  made  Cooper  famous  throughout  his  own 
country  and  soon  afterward  in  Europe. 

In   1823  appeared  u  The  Pioneers,'1  an  exciting  story  of 
life  at  the  outposts  of  civilization,  and  also  uThe  Pilot,"  his 
first  sea  story.  These  books  were  the  forerunners  of  two  series, 
in  their  widely  differing  veins.    Yet  three  years  passed  before 

83 


84  UTERATURE  OF  AM.  NATIONS. 

the  appearance  of  u  The  Last  of  the  Mohicans,"  abounding 
in  sharp  contrasts  of  Indians,  pioneers  and  British  and  French 
soldiers  in  the  time  of  the  French  and  Indian  war.  Cooper 
is  now  charged  with  having  greatly  idealized  his  Indian  char- 
acters, but  his  contemporaries  commended  him  for  fidelity  to 
the  types  he  had  studied. 

After  publishing  "  The  Red  Rover, "  his  second  sea  story, 
Cooper  went  to  Europe,  where  he  remained  six  years,  resid- 
ing in  different  cities.  Intensely  patriotic,  as  well  as  easily 
offended,  he  was  greatly  irritated  by  European  comment  on 
his  country  and  its  people.  He  therefore  printed  in  English 
newspapers  and  reviews  some  vigorous  corrections  of  mis- 
statements  regarding  America,  and  he  also  published  a  book 
with  the  same  purpose.  His  manner  was  so  combative  that 
the  controversy  he  provoked  continued  for  years.  Meanwhile 
he  was  earnestly  observant  of  European  politics  and  published 
three  novels  abounding  in  political  speculation  and  action, 
which  have  fallen  into  the  background. 

His  first  prominent  work  after  his  return  to  his  native 
country  was  a  * l  Naval  History  of  the  United  States  ; ' '  after 
which  he  wrote  novels  in  rapid  succession,  as  well  as  his 
"  Lives  of  Distinguished  American  Naval  Officers."  But  un- 
fortunately he  became  again  involved  in  useless  controversy, 
attacking  New  England  and  the  Puritans.  Always  interested 
and  active  in  politics,  he  was  an  object  of  severe  newspaper 
criticism.  Cooper,  combative  and  proud,  had  some  legal 
ability,  and  instituted  many  libel  suits,  all  of  which  were 
successful,  and  yet  wasted  his  time  and  talents.  He  died  at 
Coopers  town,  September  I4th,  1851. 

In  Europe,  Cooper  has  often  been  termed  ' '  the  Walter 
Scott  of  America,"  and  the  comparison  is  apt  to  the  extent 
that  he,  like  Scott,  took  patriotic,  passionate  interest  in  em- 
bodying in  literature  such  interesting  characters  and  experi- 
ences of  his  native  land  as  were  vanishing.  The  value  of  his 
work  becomes  apparent  when  the  reader  now  notes  how  small 
is  the  remaining  fiction  of  the  periods  treated  by  Cooper.  The 
accuracy  of  Cooper's  descriptions  of  men  and  scenes  was 
sufficiently  attested  in  his  own  day,  when  there  still  survived 
participators  in  wars  with  the  Indians,  French  and  British, 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  85 

and  when  the  war  of  1812-15  was  recent  history.  Cooper  was 
weak  in  construction  and  had  little  sense  of  humor.  His 
style  is  formal  and  he  indulges  too  much  in  detail.  Though 
he  created  such  apparently  real  characters  as  Natty  Burapo 
and  Long  Tom  Coffin,  he  was  unable  generally  to  individu- 
alize his  characters  by  appropriate  speech.  In  chapters  de- 
scriptive of  incidents,  however,  he  is  almost  equal  to  Scott, 
and  was  as  highly  admired  by  the  elder  Dumas  and  other 
European  writers  of  exciting  romance. 

THE  ARIEL  ON  THE  SHOALS. 

(From  "The  Pilot.") 

THE  sea  was  becoming  more  agitated,  and  the  violence  of 
the  wind  was  gradually  increasing.  The  latter  no  longer 
whistled  amid  the  cordage  of  the  vessel,  but  it  seemed  to 
howl  surlily  as  it  passed  the  complicated  machinery  that 
the  frigate  obtruded  on  its  path.  An  endless  succession  of 
white  surges  rose  above  the  heavy  billows,  and  the  very  air 
was  glittering  with  the  light  that  was  disengaged  from 
the  ocean.  The  ship  yielded  each  moment  more  and  more 
before  the  storm,  and,  in  less  than  half  an  hour  from  the  time 
that  she  had  lifted  her  anchor,  she  was  driven  along  with 
tremendous  fury  by  the  full  power  of  a  gale  of  wind.  Still, 
the  hardy  and  experienced  mariners  who  directed  her  move- 
ments, held  her  to  the  course  that  was  necessary  to  their 
preservation,  and  still  Griffith  gave  forth,  when  directed  by 
their  unknown  pilot,  those  orders  that  turned  her  in  the  nar- 
row channel  where  safety  was  alone  to  be  found. 

So  far  the  performance  of  his  duty  appeared  easy  to  the 
stranger,  and  he  gave  the  required  directions  in  those  still, 
calm  tones  that  formed  so  remarkable  a  contrast  to  the  respon- 
sibility of  his  situation.  But  when  the  land  was  becoming 
dim,  in  distance  as  well  as  darkness,  and  the  agitated  sea  was 
only  to  be  discovered  as  it  swept  by  them  in  foam,  he  broke 
in  upon  the  monotonous  roaring  of  the  tempest  with  the 
sounds  of  his  voice,  seeming  to  shake  off  his  apathy  and  rouse 
himself  to  the  occasion. 

"Now  is  the  time  to  watch  her  closely,  Mr.  Griffith/*  he 
cried  ;  "  here  we  get  the  true  tide  and  the  real  danger.  Place 


86  UTERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

the  best  quarter-master  of  your  ship  in  those  chains,  and  let 
an  officer  stand  by  him  and  see  that  he  gives  us  the  right 
water ." 

"  I  will  take  that  office  on  myself,"  said  the  captain ;  "pass 
a  light  into  the  weather  main-chains." 

"Stand  by  your  braces  !"  exclaimed  the  pilot  with  start-i 
ling  quickness.  "  Heave  away  that  lead  !" 

These  preparations  taught  the  crew  to  expect  the  crisis, 
and  every  officer  and  man  stood  in  fearful  silence  at  his  as- 
signed station  awaiting  the  issue  of  the  trial.  Even  the 
quarter-master  at  the  cun  gave  out  his  orders  to  the  men  at 
the  wheel  in  deeper  and  hoarser  tones  than  usual,  as  if  anx- 
ious not  to  disturb  the  quiet  and  order  of  the  vessel. 

While  this  deep  expectation  pervaded  the  frigate,  the 
piercing  cry  of  the  leadsman,  as  he  called,  "  By  the  mark 
seven!"  rose  above  the  tempest,  crossed  over  the  decks,  and 
appeared  to  pass  away  to  leeward,  borne  on  the  blast  like  the 
warnings  of  some  water-spirit." 

"'Tis  well,"  returned  the  pilot,  calmly;  utry  it  again." 

The  short  pause  was  succeeded  by  another  cry,  "and  a 
half-five!" 

"She  shoals!  she  shoals!"  exclaimed  Griffith  ;  "  keep  her 
a  good  full. ' J 

"Ay !  you  must  hold  the  vessel  in  command,  now,"  said 
the  pilot,  with  those  cool  tones  that  are  most  appalling  in 
critical  moments,  because  they  seem  to  denote  most  prepara- 
tion and  care. 

The  third  call  of  "By  the  deep  four !"  was  followed  by  a 
prompt  direction  from  the  stranger  to  tack. 

Griffith  seemed  to  emulate  the  coolness  of  the  pilot,  in 
issuing  the  necessary  orders  to  execute  this  manoeuvre. 

The  vessel  rose  slowly  from  the  inclined  position  into 
which  she  had  been  forced  by  the  tempest,  and  the  sails  were 
shaking  violently,  as  if  to  release  themselves  from  their  con- 
finement while  the  ship  stemmed  the  billows,  when  the  well- 
known  voice  of  the  sailing-master  was  heard  shouting  from 
the  forecastle — "Breakers!  breakers,  dead  ahead!" 

This  appalling  sound  seemed  yet  to  be  lingering  about  the 
ship,  when  a  second  voice  cried — "  Breakers  on  our  lee-bow  ! " 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  87 

"  We  are  in  a  bight  of  the  shoals,  Mr.  Gray,"  said  the 
commander.  uShe  loses  her  way  ;  perhaps  an  anchor  might 
hold  her." 

4 'Clear  away  that  best-bower!"  shouted  Griffith  through 
his  trumpet. 

"Hold  on  !"  cried  the  pilot,  in  a  voice  that  reached  the 
very  hearts  of  all  who  heard  him  ;  uhold  on  every  thing." 

The  young  man  turned  fiercely  to  the  daring  stranger  who 
thus  defied  the  discipline  of  his  vessel,  and  at  once  demanded 
— "  Who  is  it  that  dares  to  countermand  my  orders? — is  it  not 
enough  that  you  run  the  ship  into  danger,  but  you  must  in- 
terfere to  keep  her  there  ?  If  another  word — " 

"  Peace,  Mr.  Griffith,"  interrupted  the  captain,  bending 
from  the  rigging,  his  gray  locks  blowing  about  in  the  wind, 
and  adding  a  look  of  wildness  to  the  haggard  face  that  he  ex- 
hibited by  the  light  of  his  lantern  ;  "  yield  the  trumpet  to  Mr. 
Gray  ;  he  alone  can  save  us." 

Griffith  threw  his  speaking-trumpet  on  the  deck,  and  as  he 
walked  proudly  away,  muttered  in  bitterness  of  feeling — 
"Then  all  is  lost,  indeed,  and,  among  the  rest,  the  foolish 
hopes  with  which  I  visited  this  coast." 

There  was,  however,  no  time  for  reply  ;  the  ship  had  been 
rapidly  running  into  the  wind,  and,  as  the  efforts  of  the  crew 
were  paralyzed  by  the  contradictory  orders  they  had  heard, 
she  gradually  lost  her  way,  and  in  a  few  seconds  all  her  sails 
were  taken  aback. 

Before  the  crew  understood  their  situation,  the  pilot  had 
applied  the  trumpet  to  his  mouth,  and,  in  a  voice  that  rose 
above  the  tempest,  he  thundered  forth  his  orders.  Each  com- 
mand was  given  distinctly,  and  with  a  precision  that  showed 
him  to  be  master  of  his  profession.  The  helm  was  kept  fast, 
the  head  yards  swung  up  heavily  against  the  wind,  and  the 
vessel  was  soon  whirling  round  on  her  heel  with  a  retrograde 
movement. 

Griffith  was  too  much  of  a  seaman  not  to  perceive  that  the 
pilot  had  seized,  with  a  perception  almost  intuitive,  the  only 
method  that  promised  to  extricate  the  vessel  from  her  situa- 
tion. He  was  young,  impetuous  and  proud ,  but  he  was  also 
generous.  Forgetting  his  resentment  and  his  mortification, 


88  UTERATURS  OP  A!,!,  NATIONS. 

he  rushed  forward  among  the  men,  and,  by  his  presence  and 
example,  added  certainty  to  the  experiment.  The  ship  fell 
off  slowly  before  the  gale,  and  bowed  her  yards  nearly  to  the 
water,  as  she  felt  the  blast  pouring  its  fury  on  her  broadsides 
while  the  surly  waves  beat  violently  against  her  stern,  as  if  in 
reproach  at  departing  from  her  usual  manner  of  moving. 

The  voice  of  the  pilot,  however,  was  still  heard,  steady  and 
calm,  and  yet  so  clear  and  high  as  to  reach  every  ear  ;  and  the 
obedient  seamen  whirled  the  yards  at  his  bidding  in  despite 
of  the  tempest,  as  if  they  handled  the  toys  of  their  childhood. 
When  the  ship  had  fallen  off  dead  before  the  wind,  her  head 
sails  were  shaken,  her  aft-yards  trimmed,  and  her  helm  shifted 
before  she  had  time  to  run  upon  the  danger  that  had  threat- 
ened, as  well  to  leeward  as  to  windward.  The  beautiful  fab- 
ric, obedient  to  her  government,  threw  her  bows  up  gracefully 
toward  the  wind  again,  and,  as  her  sails  were  trimmed,  moved 
out  from  amongst  the  dangerous  shoals  in  which  she  had  been 
embayed,  as  steadily  and  swiftly  as  she  had  approached  them. 

A  moment  of  breathless  astonishment  succeeded  the  ac- 
complishment of  this  nice  manoeuvre,  but  there  was  no  time 
for  the  usual  expressions  of  surprise.  The  stranger  still  held 
the  trumpet,  and  continued  to  lift  his  voice  amid  the  howlings 
of  the  blast,  whenever  prudence  or  skill  directed  any  change 
in  the  management  of  the  ship.  For  an  hour  longer  there  was 
a  fearful  struggle  for  their  preservation,  the  channel  becoming 
at  each  step  more  complicated,  and  the  shoals  thickening 
around  the  mariners  on  every  side.  The  lead  was  cast  rapidly, 
and  the  quick  eye  of  the  pilot  seemed  to  pierce  the  darkness 
with  a  keenness  of  vision  that  exceeded  human  power.  I 
was  apparent  to  all  in  the  vessel,  that  they  were  under  the 
guidance  of  one  who  understood  the  navigation  thoroughly, 
and  their  exertions  kept  pace  with  their  reviving  confidence. 
Again  and  again  the  frigate  appeared  to  be  rushing  blindly  on 
shoals,  where  the  sea  was  covered  with  foam,  and  where  de- 
struction would  have  been  as  sudden  as  it  was  certain,  when 
the.  clear  voice  of  the  stranger  was  heard  warning  them  of  the 
danger  and  inciting  them  to  their  duty.  The  vessel  was  im- 
plicitly yielded  to  his  government,  and  during  those  anxious 
moments,  when  she  was  dashing  the  waters  aside,  throwing 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  89 

the  spray  over  her  enormous  yards,  each  ear  would  listen 
eagerly  for  those  sounds  that  had  obtained  a  command  over 
the  crew  that  can  only  be  acquired,  under  such  circumstances, 
by  great  steadiness  and  consummate  skill.  The  ship  was  re- 
covering from  uie  inaction  of  changing  her  course  in  one  of 
those  critical  tacks  that  she  had  made  so  often  when  the  pilot 
for  the  first  time  addressed  the  commander  of  the  frigate,  who 
still  continued  to  superintend  the  all-important  duty  of  the 
leadsman. 

"  Now  is  the  pinch, "  he  said ;  u  and  if  the  ship  behaves  well, 
we  are  safe — but  if  otherwise,  all  we  have  yet  done  will  be 
useless. " 

The  veteran  seaman  whom  he  addressed  left  the  chains  at 
this  portentous  notice,  and,  calling  to  his  first  lieutenant, 
required  of  the  stranger  an  explanation  of  his  warning. 

"See  you  yon  light  on  the  southern  headland ?"  returned 
the  pilot ;  uyou  may  know  it  from  the  star  near  it  by  its  sink- 
ing, at  times,  in  the  ocean.  Now  observe  the  hummock  a 
little  north  of  it,  looking  like  a  shadow  on  the  horizon — 'tis 
a  hill  far  inland.  If  we  keep  that  light  open  from  the  hill,  we 
shall  do  well — but  if  not,  we  surely  go  to  pieces." 

"  Let  us  tack  again !  "  exclaimed  the  lieutenant. 

The  pilot  shook  his  head,  as  he  replied — "There  is  no 
more  tacking  or  box -hauling  to  be  done  to-night.  We  have 
barely  room  to  pass  out  of  the  shoals  on  this  course,  and  if  we 
can  weather  the  *  DeviPs  Grip/  we  clear  their  outermost 
point — but  if  not,  as  I  said  before,  there  is  but  an  alternative." 

"If  we  had  beaten  out  the  way  we  entered,"  exclaimed 
Griffith,  "we  should  have  done  well.'* 

"Say,  also,  if  the  tide  would  have  let  us  do  so,"  returned 
the  pilot  calmly.  "Gentlemen,  we  must  be  prompt;  we  have 
but  a  mile  to  go,  and  the  ship  appears  to  fly.  That  topsail  is 
not  enough  to  keep  her  up  to  the  wind ;  we  want  both  jib 
and  mainsail." 

"'Tis  a  perilous  thing  to  loosen  canvas  in  such  a  tempest !" 
observed  the  doubtful  captain. 

"It  must  be  done,"  returned  the  collected  stranger;  "we 
perish  without — see  !  the  light  already  touches  the  edge  of  the 
hummock  ;  the  sea  casts  us  to  leeward ! ' ' 


90  UTERATURE  OF  AI,I<  NATIONS: 

"  It  shall  be  done ! "  cried  Griffith,  seizing  the  trumpet  from 
the  hand  of  the  pilot. 

The  orders  of  the  lieutenant  were  executed  almost  as  soon 
as  issued,  and,  every  thing  being  ready,  the  enormous  folds  of 
the  mainsail  were  trusted  loose  to  the  blast.  There  was  an 
instant  when  the  result  was  doubtful ;  the  tremendous  thresh- 
ing of  the  heavy  sails  seeming  to  bid  defiance  to  all  restraint, 
shaking  the  ship  to  her  centre  ;  but  art  and  strength  prevailed, 
and  gradually  the  canvas  was  distended,  and,  bellying  as  it 
filled,  was  drawn  down  to  its  usual  place  by  the  power  of  a 
hundred  men.  The  vessel  yielded  to  this  immense  addition 
of  force,  and  bowed  before  it  like  a  reed  bending  to  a  breeze. 
But  the  success  of  the  measure  was  announced  by  a  joyful  cry 
from  the  stranger  that  seemed  to  burst  from  his  inmost  soul. 

"She  feels  it!  she  springs  her  luff!  observe,"  he  said, 
"the  light  opens  from  the  hummock  already  ;  if  she  will  only 
bear  her  canvas,  we  shall  go  clear  ! " 

A  report  like  that  of  a  cannon  interrupted  his  exclamation, 
and  something  resembling  a  white  cloud  was  seen  drifting 
before  the  wind  from  the  head  of  the  ship,  till  it  was  driven 
into  the  gloom  far  to  leeward. 

u'Tis  the  jib  blown  from  the  bolt-ropes,"  said  the  com- 
mander of  the  frigate.  "  This  is  no  time  to  spread  light  duck 
— but  the  mainsail  may  stand  it  yet." 

"The  sail  would  laugh  at  a  tornado,"  returned  the  lieu- 
tenant ;  ubut  that  mast  springs  like  a  piece  of  steel." 

" Silence  all!"  cried  the  pilot.  "Now,  gentlemen,  we 
shall  soon  know  our  fate.  Let  her  luff— luff  you  can  ! " 

This  warning  effectually  closed  all  discourse,  and  the  hardy 
mariners,  knowing  that  they  had  already  done  all  in  the 
power  of  man  to  insure  their  safety,  stood  in  breathless  anx- 
iety awaiting  the  result.  At  a  short  distance  ahead  of  them, 
the  whole  ocean  was  white  with  foam,  and  the  waves,  instead 
of  rolling  on  in  regular  succession,  appeared  to  be  tossing 
about  in  mad  gambols.  A  single  streak  of  dark  billows,  not 
half  a  cable's  length  in  width,  could  be  discerned  running 
into  this  chaos  of  water ;  but  it  was  soon  lost  to  the  eye  amid 
the  confusion  of  the  disturbed  element.  Along  this  narrow 
path  the  vessel  moved  more  heavily  than  before,  being 


AMERICAN   LITERATURE.  9! 

brought  so  near  the  wind  as  to  keep  her  sails  touching.  The 
pilot  silently  proceeded  to  the  wheel,  and  with  his  own  hands 
he  undertook  the  steerage  of  the  ship.  No  noise  proceeded 
from  the  frigate  to  interrupt  the  horrid  tumult  of  the  ocean, 
and  she  entered  the  channel  among  the  breakers  with  the 
silence  of  a  desperate  calmness.  Twenty  times,  as  the  foam 
rolled  away  to  leeward,  the  crew  were  on  the  eve  of  uttering 
their  joy,  as  they  supposed  the  vessel  past  the  danger ;  but 
breaker  after  breaker  would  still  rise  before  them,  following 
each  other  into  the  general  mass  to  check  their  exultation. 
Occasionally  the  fluttering  of  the  sails  would  be  heard ;  and 
when  the  looks  of  the  startled  seamen  were  turned  to  the 
wheel,  they  beheld  the  stranger  grasping  its  spokes,  with  his 
quick  eye  glancing  from  the  water  to  the  canvas.  At  length 
the  ship  reached  a  point  where  she  appeared  to  be  rushing 
directly  into  the  jaws  of  destruction,  when  suddenly  her 
course  was  changed,  and  her  head  receded  rapidly  from  the 
wind.  At  the  same  instant  the  voice  of  the  pilot  was  heard 
shouting — u  Square  away  the  yards  ! — in  mainsail ! " 

A  general  burst  from  the  crew  echoed,  ' c  Square  away  the 
yards ! "  and  quick  as  thought  the  frigate  was  seen  gliding 
along  the  channel  before  the  wind.  The  eye  had  hardly 
time  to  dwell  on  the  foam,  which  seemed  like  clouds  driving 
in  the  heavens,  and  directly  the  gallant  vessel  issued  from  her 
perils,  and  rose  and  fell  on  the  heavy  waves  of  the  open  sea. 

DEERSLAYER  BECOMES  HAWKEYE. 

(From  "The  Deerslayer.") 

BY  this  time  the  piece  was  reloaded,  and  Deerslayer,  after 
tossing  the  tomahawk  into  the  canoe,  advanced  to  his  victim, 
and  stood  over  him,  leaning  on  his  rifle,  in  melancholy  atten- 
tion. It  was  the  first  instance  in  which  he  had  seen  a  man 
fall  in  battle.  It  was  the  first  fellow- creature  against  whom 
he  had  ever  seriously  raised  his  own  hand.  The  sensations 
were  novel ;  and  regret,  with  the  freshness  of  our  better  feel- 
ings, mingled  with  his  triumph.  The  Indian  was  not  dead, 
though  shot  directly  through  the  body.  He  lay  on  his  back 
motionless,  but  his  eyes,  now  full  of  consciousness,  watched 
each  action  of  his  victor — as  the  fallen  bird  regards  the 


92  LITERATURE  OF  AI<I<  NATIONS. 

fowler — -jealous  of  every  movement.  The  man  probably  ex- 
pected the  fatal  blow  which  was  to  precede  the  loss  of  his 
scalp ;  or  perhaps  he  anticipated  that  this  latter  act  of  cruelty 
would  precede  his  death.  Deerslayer  read  his  thoughts  ;  and 
he  found  a  melancholy  satisfaction  in  relieving  the  apprehen- 
sions of  the  helpless  savage. 

"No,  no,  red-skin,"  he  said;  "you've  nothing  more  to 
fear  from  me.  I  am  of  a  Christian  stock,  and  scalping  is  not 
one  of  my  gifts.  I'll  just  make  sartain  of  your  rifle,  and  then 
come  back  and  do  you  what  sarvice  I  can.  Though  here  I 
can't  stay  much  longer,  as  the  crack  of  three  rifles  will  be 
apt  to  bring  some  of  your  devils  down  upon  me." 

The  close  of  this  was  said  in  a  sort  of  soliloquy,  as  the 
young  man  went  in  quest  of  the  fallen  rifle.  The  piece  was 
found  where  its  owner  had  dropped  it,  and  was  immediately 
put  into  the  canoe.  Laying  his  own  rifle  at  its  side,  Deer- 
slayer  then  returned  and  stood  over  the  Indian  again. 

"All  inmity  atween  you  and  me's  at  an  ind,  red-skin,"  he 
said,  "  and  you  may  set  your  heart  at  rest  on  the  score  of  the 
scalp,  or  any  further  injury.  My  gifts  are  white,  as  I've  told 
you  ;  and  I  hope  my  conduct  will  be  white  also ! ' J 

Could  looks  have  conveyed  all  they  meant,  it  is  probable 
Deerslayer's  innocent  vanity  on  this  subject  of  color  would 
have  been  rebuked  a  little ;  but  he  comprehended  the  grati- 
tune  that  was  expressed  in  the  eyes  of  the  dying  savage,  with- 
out in  the  least  detecting  the  bitter  sarcasm  that  struggled 
with  the  bitter  feeling. 

"Water ! "  ejaculated  the  thirsty  and  unfortunate  creature  ; 
ugive  poor  Injin  water." 

"Aye,  water  you  shall  have,  if  you  drink  the  lake  dry. 
I'll  just  carry  you  down  to  it,  that  you  may  take  your  fill. 
This  is  the  way,  they  tell  me,  with  all  wounded  people — 
water  is  their  greatest  comfort  and  delight. ' ' 

So  saying,  Deerslayer  raised  the  Indian  in  his  arms,  and 
carried  him  to  the  lake.  Here  he  first  helped  him  to  take  an 
attitude  in  which  he  could  appease  his  burning  thirst ;  after 
which  he  seated  himself  on  a  stone,  and  took  the  head  of  his 
wounded  adversary  in  his  own  lap,  and  endeavored  to  soothe 
his  anguish  in  the  best  manner  he  could. 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  93 

"  It  would  be  sinful  in  me  to  tell  you  your  time  hadn't 
come,  warrior,"  he  commenced,  "and  therefore  I'll  not  say  it 
You've  passed  the  middle  age  already,  and,  considerin'  the 
sort  of  lives  ye  lead,  your  days  have  been  pretty  well  filled. 
The  principal  thing  now  is  to  look  forward  to  what  comes 
next.  Neither  red-skin  nor  pale- face,  on  the  whole,  calculates 
much  on  sleepin'  for  ever ;  but  both  expect  to  live  in  another 
world.  Each  has  his  gifts,  and  will  be  judged  by  'em,  and  I 
suppose,  you've  thought  these  matters  over  enough,  not  to 
stand  in  need  of  sarmons  when  the  trial  comes.  You'll  find 
your  happy  hunting-grounds,  if  you've  been  a  just  Injin ;  if 
an  onjust,  you'll  meet  your  desarts  in  another  way.  I've  my 
own  idees  about  these  things ;  but  you're  too  old  and  expe- 
r'enced  to  need  any  explanations  from  one  as  young  as  I." 

"Good!"  ejaculated  the  Indian,  whose  voice  retained  its 
depth  even  as  life  ebbed  away;  u  young  head — ole  wisdom  !" 

"It's  sometimes  a  consolation,  when  the  ind  comes,  to 
know  that  them  we've  harmed,  or  tried  to  harm,  forgive  us. 
I  suppose  natur'  seeks  this  relief,  by  way  of  getting  a  pardon 
on  'arth  :  as  we  never  can  know  whether  He  pardons,  who  is 
all  in  all,  till  judgment  itself  comes.  It's  soothing  to  know 
that  any  pardon  at  such  times ;  and  that,  I  conclude,  is  the 
secret.  Now,  as  for  myself,  I  overlook  altogether  your  designs 
ag'in  my  life  :  first,  because  no  harm  came  of  'em  ;  next,  be- 
cause it's  your  gifts,  and  natur',  and  trainin',  and  I  ought  not 
to  have  trusted  you  at  all ;  and,  finally  and  chiefly,  because  I 
can  bear  no  ill-will  to  a  dying  man,  whether  heathen  or 
Christian.  So  put  your  heart  at  ease,  so  far  as  I'm  consarned  ; 
you  know  best  what  other  matters  ought  to  trouble  you,  or  what 
ought  to  give  you  satisfaction  in  so  trying  a  moment."  .  .  . 

With  the  high  innate  courtesy  that  so  often  distinguishes 
the  Indian  warrior  before  he  becomes  corrupted  by  too  much 
intercourse  with  the  worst  class  of  the  white  men,  he  endeav- 
ored to  express  his  thankfulness  for  the  other's  good  inten- 
tions, and  to  let  him  understand  that  they  were  appreciated. 

"Good  !"  he  repeated,  for  this  was  an  English  word  much 
used  by  the  savages — "  good — young  head  ;  young  heart,  too. 
Old  heart  tough ;  no  shed  tear.  Hear  Indian  when  he  die, 
and  no  want  to  lie — what  he  call  him?" 


94  LITERATURE  OF  AI.lv  NATIONS. 

"Deerslayer  is  the  name  I  bear  now,  though  the  Dela- 
wares  have  said  that  when  I  get  back  from  this  war-path,  I 
shall  have  a  more  manly  title,  provided  I  can  'arn  one." 

"That  good  name  for  boy — poor  name  for  warrior.  He 
get  better  quick.  No  fear  there'" — the  savage  had  strength 
sufficient,  under  the  strong  excitement  he  felt,  to  raise  a  hand 
and  tap  the  young  man  on  his  breast — ueye  sartain — finger 
lightning — aim,  death — great  warrior  soon.  No  Deerslayer — 
Hawkeye — Hawkeye — Hawkeye.  Shake  hand. ' ' 

Deerslayer — or  Hawkeye,  as  the  youth  was  then  first 
named,  for  in  after  years  he  bore  the  appellation  throughout 
all  that  region — Deerslayer  took  the  hand  of  the  savage, 
whose  last  breath  was  drawn  in  that  attitude,  gazing  in  ad- 
miration at  the  countenance  of  a  stranger  who  had  shown  so 
much  readiness,  skill,  and  firmness,  in  a  scene  that  was  equally 
trying  and  novel.  When  the  reader  remembers  it  is  the 
highest  gratification  an  Indian  can  receive  to  see  his  enemy 
betray  weakness,  he  will  be  better  able  to  appreciate  the  con- 
duct which  had  extorted  so  great  a  concession  at  such  a 
moment. 

"His  spirit  has  fled!"  said  Deerslayer,  in  a  suppressed, 
melancholy  voice.  "Ah's  me!  Well,  to  this  we  must  all 
come,  sooner  or  later ;  and  he  is  happiest,  let  his  skin  be  of 
what  color  it  may,  who  is  best  fitted  to  meet  it.  ...  Here 
have  old  Hutter  and  Hurry  Harry  got  themselves  into  diffi- 
culty, if  they  hav'n't  got  themselves  into  torment  and  death, 
and  all  for  a  bounty  that  luck  offers  to  me  in  what  many  would 
think  a  lawful  and  suitable  manner.  But  not  a  farthing  of 
such  money  shall  cross  my  hand.  White  I  was  born,  and 
white  will  I  die ;  clinging  to  color  to  the  last,  even  though 
the  King's  Majesty,  his  governors,  and  all  his  councils,  both 
at  home  and  in  the  Colonies,  forget  from  what  they  come,  and 
where  they  hope  to  go,  and  all  for  a  little  advantage  in  war- 
fare. No,  no — warrior,  hand  of  mine  shall  never  molest  your 
.scalp,  and  so  your  soul  may  rest  in  peace  on  the  point  of 
making  a  decent  appearance,  when  the  body  comes  to  join  it, 
in  your  own  land  of  spirits." 

Deerslayer  arose  as  soon  as  he  had  spoken.  Then  he 
placed  the  body  of  the  dead  man  in  a  sitting  posture,  with  i% 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  95 

back  against  the  little  rock,  taking  the  necessary  care  to  pre- 
vent it  from  falling  or  in  any  way  settling  into  an  attitude 
that  might  be  thought  unseemingly  by  the  sensitive,  though 
wild  notions  of  a  savage.  When  this  duty  was  performed,  the 
young  man  stood  gazing  at  the  grim  countenance  of  his  fallen 
foe,  in  a  sort  of  melancholy  abstraction. 

UNCAS  BEFORE  TAMENUND. 

(From  "The  Last  of  the  Mohicans.") 

"  WITH  what  tongue  does  the  prisoner  speak  to  the  Man- 
itto?"  demanded  the  patriarch,  without  unclosing  his  eyes. 

"  Like  his  fathers, n  Uncas  replied ;  "  with  the  tongue  of 
a  Delaware. " 

At  this  sudden  and  unexpected  annunciation,  a  low,  fierce 
yell  ran  through  the  multitude,  that  might  not  inaptly  be 
compared  to  the  growl  of  the  lion,  as  his  choler  is  first  awa- 
kened— a  fearful  omen  of  the  weight  of  his  future  anger. 
The  effect  was  equally  strong  on  the  sage,  though  differently 
exhibited.  He  passed  a  hand  before  his  eyes,  as  if  to  exclude 
the  last  evidence  of  so  shameful  a  spectacle,  while  he  repeated, 
in  his  low  and  deeply  guttural  tones,  the  words  he  had  just 
heard. 

"  A  Delaware  !  I  have  lived  to  see  the  tribes  of  the  Lenape 
driven  from  their  council  fires,  and  scattered,  like  broken 
herds  of  deer,  among  the  hills  of  the  Iroquois  !  I  have  seen 
the  hatchets  of  a  strange  people  sweep  woods  from  the  valleys, 
that  the  winds  of  heaven  had  spared  !  The  beasts  that  run  on 
the  mountains,  and  the  birds  that  fly  above  the  trees,  have  I 
seen  living  in  the  wigwams  of  men ;  but  never  before  have  I 
found  a  Delaware  so  base  as  to  creep,  like  a  poisonous  ser- 
pent, into  the  camps  of  his  nation.'' 

"The  singing-birds  have  opened  their  bills,"  returned 
Uncas,  in  the  softest  notes  of  his  own  musical  voice ;  "  and 
Tamenund  has  heard  their  song." 

The  sage  started,  and  bent  his  head  aside,  as  if  to  catch 
the  fleeting  bounds  of  some  passing  melody. 

"  Does  Tamenund  dream?"  he  exclaimed.  "What  voice 
is  at  his  ear?  Have  the  winters  gone  backward?  Will  sum- 
mer come  again  to  the  children  of  the  Lenape  ? '  * 


96  LITERATURE  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

A  solemn  and  respectful  silence  succeeded  this  incoherent 
burst  from  the  lips  of  the  Delaware  prophet.  His  people 
readily  construed  his  unintelligible  language  into  one  of  those 
mysterious  conferences,  he  was  believed  to  hold  so  frequently 
with  a  superior  intelligence,  and  they  awaited  the  issue  of  the 
revelation  in  secret  awe.  After  a  long  and  patient  pause, 
however,  one  of  the  aged  men  perceiving  that  the  sage  had 
lost  the  recollection  of  the  subject  before  them,  ventured  to 
remind  him  again  of  the  presence  of  the  prisoner. 

"  The  false  Delaware  trembles  lest  he  should  hear  the 
words  of  Tamenund,"  he  said.  "'Tisahound  that  howls, 
when  the  Yengeese  show  him  a  trail.'  > 

"And  ye,"  returned  Uncas,  looking  sternly  around  him, 
"  are  dogs  that  whine  when  the  Frenchman  casts  ye  the  offals 
of  his  deer !" 

Twenty  knives  gleammed  in  the  air,  and  as  many  warriors 
sprang  to  their  feet  at  this  biting,  and  perhaps  merited,  retort; 
but  a  motion  from  one  of  the  chiefs  suppressed  the  outbreak- 
ing of  their  tempers,  and  restored  the  appearance  of  quiet. 
The  task  might  possibly  have  been  more  difficult,  had  not  a 
movement,  made  by  Tamenund,  indicated  that  he  was  again 
about  to  speak. 

"Delaware,"  resumed  the  sage,  " little  art  thou  worthy  of 
thy  name.  My  people  have  not  seen  a  bright  sun  in  many 
winters  ;  and  the  warrior  who  deserts  his  tribe,  when  hid  in 
clouds,  is  doubly  a  traitor.  The  law  of  the  Manitto  is  just. 
It  is  so ;  while  the  rivers  run  and  the  mountains  stand,  while 
the  blossoms  come  and  go  on  the  trees,  it  must  be  so.  He  is 
thine,  my  children,  deal  justly  by  him." 

Not  a  limb  was  moved,  nor  was  a  breath  drawn  louder  and 
longer  than  common,  until  the  closing  syllable  of  this  final 
decree  had  passed  the  lips  of  Tamenund.  Then  a  cry  of 
vengeance  burst  at  once,  as  it  might  be,  from  the  united  lips 
of  the  nation ;  a  frightful  augury  of  their  fierce  and  ruthless 
intentions.  In  the  midst  of  these  prolonged  and  savage  yells, 
a  chief  proclaimed,  in  a  high  voice,  that  the  captive  was  con- 
demned to  endure  the  dreadful  trial  of  torture  by  fire.  The 
circle  broke  its  order,  and  screams  of  delight  mingled  with 
the  bustle  and  tumult  of  instant  preparation.  Hey  ward  strug- 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  97 

gled  madly  with  his  captors  ;  the  anxious  eyes  of  Hawk-eye 
began  to  look  around  him,  with  an  expression  of  peculiar 
earnestness ;  and  Cora  again  threw  herself  at  the  feet  of  the 
patriarch,  once  more  a  suppliant  for  mercy. 

Throughout  the  whole  of  these  trying  moments,  Uncas 
had  alone  preserved  his  serenity.  He  looked  on  the  prepara- 
tions with  a  steady  eye,  and  when  the  tormentors  came  to 
seize  him,  he  met  them  with  a  firm  and  upright  attitude. 
One  among  them,  if  possible,  more  fierce  and  savage  than  his 
fellows,  seized  the  hunting  shirt  of  the  young  warrior,  and  at 
a  single  effort  tore  it  from  his  body.  Then,  with  a  yell  of 
frantic  pleasure,  he  leaped  toward  his  unresisting  victim,  and 
prepared  to  lead  him  to  the  stake.  But,  at  that  moment, 
when  he  appeared  most  a  stranger  to  the  feelings  of  humanity, 
the  purpose  of  the  savage  was  arrested  as  suddenly,  as  if  a 
supernatural  agency  had  interposed  in  the  behalf  of  Uncas. 
The  eye-balls  of  the  Delaware  seemed  to  start  from  their 
sockets;  his  mouth  opened,  and  his  whole  form  became 
frozen  in  an  attitude  of  amazement.  Raising  his  hand  with  a 
slow  and  regulated  motion,  he  pointed  with  a  finger  to  the 
bosom  of  the  captive.  His  companions  crowded  about  him, 
in  wonder,  and  every  eye  was,  like  his  own,  fastened  intently 
on  the  figure  of  a  small  tortoise,  beautifully  tattooed  on  the 
breast  of  the  prisoner,  in  a  bright  blue  tint. 

For  a  single  instant,  Uncas  enjoyed  his  triumph,  smiling 
calmly  on  the  scene.  Then  motioning  the  crowd  away,  with 
a  high  and  haughty  sweep  of  his  arm,  he  advanced  in  front 
of  the  nation  with  the  air  of  a  king,  and  spoke  in  a  voice 
louder  than  the  murmur  of  admiration  that  ran  through  the 
multitude. 

' c  Men  of  the  lyenni  L,enape !  "  he  said,  4 '  my  race  upholds 
the  earth  !  Your  feeble  tribe  stands  on  my  shell !  What  fire, 
that  a  Delaware  can  light,  would  burn  a  child  of  my  fathers," 
he  added,  pointing  proudly  to  the  simple  blazonry  on  his 
skin  ;  ( '  the  blood  that  came  from  such  a  stock  would  smother 
your  flames !  My  race  is  the  grandfather  of  nations ! " 

"Who  art  thou?"   demanded  Tamenund,  rising,  at  the 
startling  tones  he  heard,  more  than  at  any  meaning  conveyed 
by  the  language  of  the  prisoner 
ix— 7 


98  UTERATURE  OF  AI<I<  NATIONS. 

* 4  Uncas,  the  son  of  Chingachgook, ' '  answered  the  captive> 
modestly^  turning  from  the  nation,  and  bending  his  head  in 
reverence  to  the  other's  character  and  years ;  "a  son  of  the 
Great  Unamis." 

"  The  hour  of  Tamenund  is  nigh  ! "  exclaimed  the  sage ; 
"  the  day  is  come,  at  last,  to  the  night !  I  thank  the  Manitto, 
that  one  is  here  to  fill  my  place  at  the  council  fire.  Uncas, 
the  child  of  Uncas,  is  found  !  L,et  the  eyes  of  a  dying  eagle 
gaze  on  the  rising  sun." 

The  youth  stepped  lightly,  but  proudly,  on  the  platform, 
where  he  became  visible  to  the  whole  agitated  and  wondering 
multitude.  Tamenund  held  him  at  the  length  of  his  arm, 
and  read  every  turn  in  the  fine  and  lofty  lineaments  of  his 
countenance,  with  the  untiring  gaze  of  one  who  recalled  the 
days  of  his  own  happiness  by  the  examination. 

"Is  Tamenund  a  boy?"  at  length  the  bewildered  prophet 
exclaimed.  "Have  I  dreamt  of  so  many  snows — that  my 
people  were  scattered  like  floating  sands — of  Yengeese,  more 
plenty  than  the  leaves  on  the  trees?  The  arrow  of  Tame- 
nund would  not  frighten  the  young  fawn  ;  his  arm  is  withered 
like  the  branch  of  the  dying  oak  ;  the  snail  would  be  swifter 
in  the  race ;  yet  is  Uncas  before  him,  as  they  went  to  battle, 
against  the  pale-faces !  Uncas,  the  panther  of  his  tribe,  the 
eldest  son  of  the  Lenape,  the  wisest  Sagamore  of  the  Mohi- 
cans !  Tell  me,  ye  Delawares,  has  Tamenund  been  a  sleeper 
for  a  hundred  winters  ?  ' ' 

The  calm  and  deep  silence  which  succeeded  these  words, 
sufficiently  announced  the  awful  reverence  with  which  his 
people  received  the  communication  of  the  patriarch.  None 
dared  to  answer,  though  all  listened  in  breathless  expectation 
of  what  might  follow.  Uncas,  however,  looking  in  his  face, 
with  the  fondness  and  veneration  of  a  favored  child,  presumed 
on  his  own  high  and  acknowledged  rank,  to  reply. 

"  Four  warriors  of  his  race  have  lived  and  died,"  he  said, 
"  since  the  friend  of  Tamenund  led  his  people  in  battle.  The 
blood  of  the  Turtle  has  been  in  many  chiefs,  but  all  have 
gone  back  into  the  earth,  from  whence  they  came,  except 
Chingachgook  and  his  son." 

"  It  is  true — it  is  true,"  returned  the  sage — a  flash  of  recol- 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  99 

lection  destroying  all  his  pleasing  fancies,  and  restoring  him, 
at  once,  to  a  consciousness  of  the  true  history  of  his  nation. 
"  Our  wise  men  have  often  said  that  two  warriors  of  the  Un- 
changed '  race  were  in  the  hills  of  the  Yengeese  ;  why  have 
their  seats  at  the  council  fires  of  the  Delawares  been  so  long 
empty  ?  " 

At  these  words  the  young  man  raised  his  head,  which  he 
had  still  kept  bowed  a  little,  in  reverence,  and  lifting  his 
voice,  so  as  to  be  heard  by  the  multitude,  as  if  to  explain,  at 
once,  and  for  ever,  the  policy  of  his  family,  he  said,  aloud — 

* ( Once  we  slept  where  we  could  hear  the  salt  lake  speak  in 
its  anger.  Then  we  were  rulers  and  Sagamores  over  the  land. 
But  when  a  pale-face  was  seen  on  every  brook,  we  followed 
the  deer  back  to  the  river  of  our  nation.  The  Delawares  were 
gone  !  Few  warriors  of  them  all  stayed  to  drink  of  the  stream 
they  loved.  Then  said  my  fathers — '  Here  will  we  hunt.  The 
waters  of  the  river  go  into  the  salt  lake.  If  we  go  towards 
the  setting  sun,  we  shall  find  streams  that  run  into  the  great 
lakes  of  the  sweet  water ;  there  would  a  Mohican  die,  like 
fishes  of  the  sea,  in  the  clear  springs.  When  the  Manitto  is 
ready,  and  shall  say,  c  come,*  we  will  follow  the  river  to  the 
sea,  and  take  our  own  again/  Such,  Delawares,  is  the  belief 
of  the  children  of  the  Turtle !  Our  eyes  are  on  the  rising, 
not  towards  the  setting  sun  !  We  know  whence  he  comes,  but 
we  know  not  whither  he  goes.  It  is  enough." 


WILLIAM  CUIvLEN  BRYANT. 

BRYANT  was  born  of  good  New  England  stock, 
in  Cummington,  Massachusetts,  in  1/94.  His  father, 
Peter  Bryant,  was  a  village  physician  of  more  than  ordinary 
culture,  carefully  educated,  a  student  of  English  and  French 
poetry,  and  had  a  respectable  talent  for  rhyming.  His  mo- 
ther was  descended  from  John  and  Priscilla  Alden.  She  was 
a  pious,  dignified,  sensible  woman,  whom  her  son  alludes  to, 
in  one  of  his  poems,  as  the  " stately  lady."  The  boy  was 
named  William  Cullen  from  a  celebrated  physician  in  Edin- 
burgh, and  his  father  meant  that  he  should  be  of  that  pro- 
fession, but  the  son  showed  such  a  decided  aversion  to  it  that 
the  matter  was  dropped.  The  rugged  and  picturesque  hill- 
country  around  the  Bryant  homestead  seems  to  have  de- 
veloped in  the  boy  that  absorbing  love  of  nature  which,  in 
after  life,  was  one  of  his  distinguishing  characteristics.  His 
grandfather,  Ebenezer  Snell,  was  the  resident  terror  of  the 
household.  He  gloried  in  his  Puritan  ancestors ;  and,  as  a 
magistrate,  sent  offenders,  with  fierce  willingness,  to  the 
whipping-post, — then  a  common  institution  in  Massachusetts; 
and  his  home  rule  was  hardly  less  rigorous.  From  his  harsh 
and  severe  discipline  the  boy  fled  to  the  hills  and  woods  to  be 
soothed  by  "the  love  of  nature."  He  took  refuge,  in  after 
life,  in  Unitarianism,  and,  as  he  grew  to  manhood,  and  beyond, 
he  developed  a  coldness  of  manner  and  of  mind  that  made 
him  appear,  outside  of  his  intimates,  and  the  intimate  ex- 
pression of  a  few  poems — somewhat  austere. 

After  a  good  preparatory  education,  Bryant  entered  Wil- 
liams College,  but  some  family  losses  prevented  his  taking  a 
degree.     One  was  afterwards  conferred  upon  him,  that  of 
100 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  IOI 

A.  M.  ;  and  his  name  is  enrolled  as  an  alumnus  of  the  College. 
After  leaving  college  he  studied  law  for  three  years,  and,  in 
1815,  he  was  admitted  to  the  bar  and  commenced  the  practice 
of  his  profession  in  Great  Barrington,  Massachusetts.  Here 
also  he  married. 

In  1825  Bryant  removed  to  New  York  and  began  his  real 
life  work,  that  of  journalism  ;  becoming,  after  some  prelimi- 
nary literary  skirmishing,  editor  of  the  Evening  Post.  As 
head  of  that  singularly  elevated  and  reliable  paper  he  made 
his  mark  as  the  foremost  journalist  of  the  United  States ;  the 
Puritan  austerity  of  his  mind  showing  itself  in  his  choice  of 
words,  his  exclusion  of  slang,  trivialities,  sensationalism,  and 
crude  jokes,  and  in  the  intellectual  clear-cut  precision  of  his 
editorials.  He  gave  sixty  years  of  his  life  to  newspaper  work  ; 
became  rich  and  influential ;  was  celebrated  as  a  critic ; 
crossed  the  ocean  several  times,  and  allied  himself  to  the  best 
everywhere.  While  at  home  he  spent  the  year  between  his 
house  in  New  York,  and  his  beautiful  estate  at  Roslyn,  Long 
Island. 

The  management  of  the  Evening  Post  was  Bryant's  life- 
work  ;  poetry  was  his  recreation.  The  lad  began  to  compose 
verse  when  he  was  ten  years  old,  and  to  publish  in  his  early 
teens.  He  wrote  his  most  celebrated  poem,  "  Thanatopsis," 
when  not  yet  eighteen  years  of  age.  The  first  draft  of  the 
poem  lay  among  the  author's  private  papers  for  nearly  five 
years,  was  discovered  by  his  father,  and  sent  by  him  to  the 
North  American  Review,  which  accepted  and  published  it  in 
September,  1817.  It  was  received  with  a  sort  of  rapture  here 
and  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic;  it  was  the  best  poem 
yet  written  in  America.  It  was  and  is  unique.  It  placed 
Bryant  in  that  goodly  company,  with  Wordsworth  and  his 
fellows,  who  opened  to  men  the  life  of  Nature  and  the  truth 
of  Nature's  God. 

In  1874  Mr.  Bryant  was  honored  with  an  exquisite  silver 
vase,  symbolical  of  his  life  and  writings,  procured  by  pub- 
lic subscription,  presented  with  appropriate  ceremonies,  and 
placed  in  the  Metropolitan  Museum  of  New  York.  He  died 
suddenly,  in  June,  1878,  after  reciting,  with  marvellous  fire 
and  enthusiasm,  a  passage  from  Dante,  at  the  unveiling  of 


102  WTERATURB  OF  AW,   NATIONS. 

the  bust  of  Mazzini,  in  Central  Park.     He  was  in  the  eighty* 
fourth  year  of  his  age. 

Bryant  wrote  altogether  one  hundred  and  seventy-one  orig- 
inal poems;  one  hundred  of  these  treat  exclusively  of  Nature, 
the  others,  whatever  their  subject,  include  expressions  of  the 
charms  of  Nature.  He  sings  little  of  love,  little  of  humanity, 
nothing  of  the  wrongs  of  mankind.  Poetry  is  his  retreat, 
his  temple,  almost  his  religion  ;  and  many  of  his  verses  give 
that  still  sense  of  seclusion  as  of  distant  nut-dropping  woods. 
Bryant's  best  known  poems,  after  " Thanatopsis, ' '  are  "The 
Death  of  the  Flowers,"  "A  Forest  Hymn,"  uThe  Fringed 
Gentian,"  "The  West  Wind,"  "The  Wind  and  the  Stream," 
" Autumn  Woods,"  "The  Flood  of  Ages,"  and  the  hymn, 
"  Blessed  are  they  that  Mourn."  In  his  old  age  he  made  a 
noble  translation  of  Homer's  Iliad  and  Odyssey  in  blank 
verse. 

THANATOPSIS. 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A  various  language ;  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty,  and  she  glides 
In  his  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 
And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness  ere  he  is  aware.     When  thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 
Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 
And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 
Make  thee  to  shudder  and  grow  sick  at  heart ; 
Go  forth  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around — 
Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air — 
Comes  a  still  voice — Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  course ;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 
Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid  with  many  tears, 
Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 
Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 
Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again, 


AMERICAN   UTBRATURB.  103 

And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 

Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 

To  mix  forever  with  the  elements, 

To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock 

And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 

Turns  with  his  share  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 

Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mould. 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone, — nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world — with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth — the  wise,  the  good, 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.     The  hills 
Rock-ribbed,  and  ancient  as  the  sun  ;  the  vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between ; 
The  venerable  woods ;  rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green ;  and,  poured  round  all, 
Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste, — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.     The  golden  sun, 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 
The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom.     Take  the  wings 
Of  morning,  traverse  Barca's  desert  sands, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound 
Save  his  own  dashings — yet— the  dead  are  there : 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep— the  dead  reign  there  alone. 
So  shalt  thou  rest,  and  what  if  thou  withdraw 
In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure?     All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom  ;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 


IO4  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come 

And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the  long  train 

Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men, 

The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 

In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron  and  maid, 

And  the  sweet  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man, — 

Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side, 

By  those,  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  which  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
I^ike  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 

THE  DEATH  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 

THE  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest  of  the  year, 

Of  wailing  winds,  and  naked  woods,  and  meadows  brown  and 

sere. 

Heaped  in  the  hollows  of  the  groves,  the  withered  leaves  lie  dead: 
They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust,  and  to  the  rabbit's  tread. 
The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown,  and  from  their  shrubs  the  jay, 
And  from  the  wood-top  calls  the  crow,  through  all  the  gloomy  day. 

Where  are  the  flowers,  the  fair  young  flowers,  that  lately  sprang 

and  stood 

In  brighter  light  and  softer  airs — a  beauteous  sisterhood  ? 
Alas  !  they  are  all  in  their  graves :  the  gentle  race  of  flowers 
Are  lying  in  their  beds,  with  the  fair  and  good  of  ours. 
The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie ;  but  the  cold  November  rain 
Calls  not  from  out  the  gloomy  earth  the  lovely  ones  again. 

The  wind-flower  and  the  violet,  they  perished  long  ago : 
And  the  briar-rose  and  the  orchis  died  amid  the  summer  glow : 
But  on  the  hill  the  golden-rod,  and  the  aster  in  the  wood, 
And  the  yellow  sun-flower  by  the  brook  in  autumn  beauty  stood, 
Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear  cold  heaven,  as  falls  the  plague 
on  men, 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  105 

And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was  gone  from  upland,  glade, 
and  glen. 

And  now,  when  comes  the  calm  mild  day — as  still  such  days  will 

come — 

To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out  their  winter  home, 
When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard,  though  all  the  trees 

are  still, 

And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters  of  the  rill, 
The  south  wind  searches  for  the  flowers  whose  fragrance  late  he 

bore, 
And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and  by  the  stream  no  more. 

And  then  I  think  of  one  who  in  her  youthful  beauty  died, 
The  fair  meek  blossom  that  grew  up  and  faded  by  my  side : 
In  the  cold  moist  earth  we  laid  her,  when  the  forest  cast  the  leaf; 
And  we  wept  that  one  so  lovely  should  have  a  life  so  brief. 
Yet  not  unmeet  it  was  that  one,  like  that  young  friend  of  ours, 
So  gentle  and  so  beautiful,  should  perish  with  the  flowers. 

WAITING  BY  THE  GATE. 

BESIDE  a  massive  gateway,  built  up  in  years  gone  by, 
Upon  whose  top  the  clouds  in  eternal  shadow  lie, 
While  streams  the  evening  sunshine  on  quiet  wood  and  lea, 
I  stand  and  quietly  wait  till  the  hinges  turn  for  me. 

The  tree- tops  faintly  rustle  beneath  the  breeze's  flight, 
A  soft  and  soothing  sound,  yet  it  whispers  of  the  night : 
I  hear  the  wood-thrush  piping  one  mellow  descant  more, 
And  scent  the  flowers  that  blow  when  the  heat  of  day  is  o'er. 

Behold  the  portals  open,  and  o'er  the  threshold  now 
There  steps  a  weary  one  with  a  pale  and  furrowed  brow; 
His  count  of  years  is  full,  his  allotted  task  is  wrought : 
He  passes  to  his  rest  from  a  place  that  needs  him  not. 

In  sadness  then  I  ponder,  how  quickly  fleets  the  hour 
Of  human  strength  and  action,  man's  courage  and  his  power. 
I  muse  while  still  the  wood-thrush  sings  down  the  golden  day, 
And  as  I  look  and  listen  the  sadness  wears  away. 

Again  the  hinges  turn,  and  a  youth,  departing,  throws 
A  look  of  longing  backward,  and  sorrowfully  goes : 


J06  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

A  blooming  maid,  unbinding  the  roses  from  her  hair, 
Moves  mournfully  away  from  amidst  the  young  and  fair. 

O  glory  of  our  race  that  so  suddenly  decays ! 

O  crimson  flush  of  morning  that  darkens  as  we  gaze ! 

0  breath  of  summer  blossoms  that  on  the  restless  air 
Scatters  a  moment's  sweetness,  and  flies  we  know  not  where ! 

1  grieve  for  life's  bright  promise,  just  shown  and  then  withdrawn, 
But  still  the  sun  shines  round  me ;  the  evening  bird  sings  on, 
And  I  again  am  soothed,  and,  beside  the  ancient  gate, 

In  this  soft  evening  sunlight,  I  calmly  stand  and  wait. 

Once  more  the  gates  are  open ;  an  infant  group  go  out, 

The  sweet  smile  quenched  forever,  and  stilled  the  sprightly  shout. 

0  frail,  frail  tree  of  L,ife,  that  upon  the  green  sward  strows 
Its  fair  young  buds  unopened,  with  every  wind  that  blows ! 

So  come  from  every  region,  so  enter,  side  by  side, 
The  strong  and  faint  of  spirit,  the  meek  and  men  of  pride, 
Steps  of  earth's  great  and  mighty,  between  those  pillars  gray, 
And  prints  of  little  feet  mark  the  dust  along  the  way. 

And  some  approach  the  threshold  whose  looks  are  blank  with  fear, 
And  some  whose  temples  brighten  with  joy  in  drawing  near, 
As  if  they  saw  dear  faces,  and  caught  the  gracious  eye 
Of  Him,  the  Sinless  Teacher,  who  came  for  us  to  die. 

1  mark  the  joy,  the  terror ;  yet  these,  within  my  heart, 
Can  neither  wake  the  dread  nor  the  longing  to  depart ; 
And,  in  the  sunshine  streaming  on  quiet  wood  and  lea, 
I  stand  and  calmly  wait  till  the  hinges  turn  for  me. 

THE  BATTLEFIELD. 

ONCE  this  soft  turf,  this  rivulet's  sands, 
Were  trampled  by  a  hurrying  crowd, 

And  fiery  hearts  and  armed  hands 
Encountered  in  the  battle-cloud. 

Ah  !  never  shall  the  land  forget 

How  gushed  the  life-blood  of  her  brave — 

Gushed,  warm  with  hope  and  courage  yet, 
Upon  the  soil  they  fought  to  save. 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  107 

Now  all  is  calm,  and  fresh,  and  still, 

Alone  the  chirp  of  flitting  bird, 
And  talk  of  children  on  the  hill, 

And  bell  of  wandering  kine  are  heard. 

No  solemn  host  goes  trailing  by 

The  black-mouthed  gun  and  staggering  wain ; 
Men  start  not  at  the  battle-cry ; 

Oh,  be  it  never  heard  again  ! 

Soon  rested  those  who  fought ;  but  thou 

Who  minglest  in  the  harder  strife 
For  truths  which  we  receive  not  now, 

Thy  warfare  only  ends  with  life. 

A  friendless  warfare !  lingering  long 

Through  weary  day  and  weary  year. 
A  wild  and  niany-weaponed  throng 

Hang  on  thy  front,  and  flank,  and  rear. 

Yet  nerve  thy  spirit  to  the  proof, 

And  blench  not  at  thy  chosen  lot  ; 
The  timid  good  may  stand  aloof, 

The  sage  may  frown— yet  faint  thou  not. 

Nor  heed  the  shaft  too  surely  cast, 

The  foul  and  hissing  bolt  of  scorn ; 
For  with  thy  side  shall  dwell,  at  last, 

The  victory  of  endurance  born. 

Truth,  crushed  to  earth,  shall  rise  again : 

The  eternal  years  of  God  are  hers  ; 
But  Error,  wounded,  writhes  in  pain, 

And  dies  among  his  worshippers. 

Yea,  though  thou  lie  upon  the  dust, 
When  they  who  helped  thee  flee  in  fear, 

Die  full  of  hope  and  manly  trust, 
Like  those  who  fell  in  battle  here. 

Another  hand  thy  sword  shall  wield, 

Another  hand  thy  standard  wave, 
Till  from  the  trumpet's  mouth  is  pealed 

The  blast  of  triumph  o'er  thy  grave. 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 


EMERSON,  dying  in  1882,  a  few  months  after  Longfellow, 
had  lived  seventy-nine  years;  his  first  essay,  "Nature,"  the 
matrix  of  all  the  subsequent  ones,  was  published  as  early  as 
1836  ;  his  literary  activity  continued  till  within  a  few  years 
of  the  end,  yet  his  published  works  at  the  time  of  his  death 
would  have  filled  little  more  than  a  dozen  volumes,  and  much 
of  them  was  practically  repetition  of  leading  ideas  in  his 
philosophy.  That  philosophy,  however,  had  made  him  the 
leader  of  elevated  thought  in  this  country ;  and  he  stands 
to-day  as  one  of  the  few  really  original  figures  in  the  litera- 
ture of  modern  times. 

Mary  Moody  Emerson,  his  aunt,  and  Miss  Sarah  Bradford 
prepared  him  for  college;  but  he  would  have  his  own  way 
with  books,  and  was  never  remarkable  as  a  student;  nor  did 
outdoor  exercises  attract  him.  From  a  long  line  of  New 
England  Puritan  clergymen  he  inherited  a  refined  and  sinless 
nature  and  extraordinary  spiritual  insight ;  his  value  to  his 
fellow-men  lay  not  in  worldly  experience  nor  in  logic,  but  in 
his  luminous  intuitions ;  he  comprehended  without  effort  a 
large  and  lofty  region  of  thought  or  perception,  and  caused 
glimpses  of  it  to  irradiate  others.  But  his  faculty  lay  in 
stating  what  he  perceived,  not  in  explaining  it ;  he  could  not 
successfully  argue  or  draw  deductions,  and  as  soon  as  he 
attempts  to  do  so  he  becomes  obscure  and  ceases  to  convince 
us.  He  was  not  fully  understood,  partly  because  he  did  not 
understand  himself — he  did  not  realize  how  different  from 
other  men  he  was.  Men  who  came  to  him  for  counsel  were 
impressed  and  exalted,  but  not  definitely  instructed ;  Emerson 
108 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  IOQ 

gave  them  what  he  had,  but  what  he  had  was  significant 
rather  to  the  disincarnate  intelligence  than  to  the  incarnate, 
every-day  human  being.  Thus  we  finally  recognize  a  certain 
disappointment  in  Emerson;  but  for  youth  he  is  a  stimulating 
and  invaluable  companion.  Contemplating  the  conceivable 
powers  of  the  ideal  man,  he  exaggerates  the  faculty  of  the 
actual  individual ;  hopes  thus  aroused  may  help  the  young 
to  rise  higher  than  otherwise  they  might,  but  do  not  console 
age  for  failure. 

Emerson  read  Plato  and  Swedenborg,  and  studied  the  lives 
of  great  men  ;  he  looked  at  modern  science  broadly  and  syn- 
thetically, catching  its  drift  and  its  relations  to  spiritual  life. 
He  placed  the  goal  of  civilization  at  a  high  point,  yet  flattered 
man  by  regarding  him  as  the  potential  peer  of  Christ,  to  whom 
he  denied  special  divinity.  Some  of  his  insights  have  never 
been  surpassed  by  a  mortal  intelligence  ;  but  some  of  his 
errors,  proceeding,  generally,  from  attempts  to  reason  upon 
premises  intuitively  attained,  are  dreary  lapses  from  his  pro- 
per level.  He  made  his  impression  upon  the  world  by  his 
essays ;  they  are  unique  structures.  They  are  not  a  woven 
tissue  of  consistent  argument,  but  a  collection  of  separate  say- 
ings upon  given  subjects,  arranged  in  such  order  as  seemed  to 
their  author  naturally  consecutive.  There  is  no  gradual  in- 
duction into  comprehension  of  the  topic,  but  you  begin  and 
end  on  the  same  plane.  Emerson  was  a  seer,  but  not  an 
artist.  You  may  start  at  any  point  in  his  prose  writings,  and 
understand  as  much  or  as  little  as  if  you  had  commenced  with 
the  first  page  of  "  Nature." 

It  is  probable  that  Emerson's  poems,  few  comparatively 
though  they  are,  will  outlive  his  prose,  and  the  poetry  of 
most  of  his  contemporaries.  In  these,  in  spite  of  their  rug- 
gedness  of  outward  form,  there  is  inspiration  of  the  finest  sort, 
and  a  spiritual  music  of  ineffable  beauty  and  purity.  They 
present  the  essence  of  his  best  philosophy  in  terse  and  pro- 
found metrical  form  ;  they  thrill  with  divine  vitality.  Strange 
to  say,  Emerson  distrusted  his  own  faculty  in  this  direction : 
his  ideal  was  too  high,  and  he  recognized  his  occasional  failure 
to  give  perfect  incarnation  to  his  thought.  But  the  thought 
is  so  exquisite  and  uplifting  that  the  outward  roughness  is  a 


HO  UTERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

relief,  enabling  us  to  endure  the  better  what  would  else  be 
almost  intolerable  beauty. 

Emerson  was  twice  married,  his  second  wife  surviving 
him.  He  twice  visited  Europe,  and  the  friendship  between 
him  and  Carlyle  is  historical.  One  of  his  most  interesting 
books  to  the  ordinary  reader  is  u English  Traits,"  in  which 
he  gives  a  singularly  just  and  keen  account  of  English  char- 
acter. His  life  was  spent  in  Concord,  near  Boston  ;  and  he, 
during  his  lifetime,  and  his  memory  since  his  death,  have 
helped  to  make  it  the  Mecca  of  all  travelers  who  regard  what- 
ever is  purest  and  worthiest  in  human  life  and  thought. 

NATURE. 

THE  greatest  delight  which  the  fields  and  woods  minister, 
is  the  suggestion  of  an  occult  relation  between  man  and  the 
vegetable.  I  am  not  alone  and  unacknowledged.  They  nod 
to  me,  and  I  to  them.  The  waving  of  the  boughs  in  the 
storm,  is  new  to  me  and  old.  It  takes  me  by  surprise,  and 
yet  is  not  unknown.  Its  effect  is  like  that  of  a  higher  thought 
or  a  better  emotion  coming  over  me,  when  I  deemed  I  was 
thinking  justly  or  doing  right. 

Yet  it  is  certain  that  the  power  to  produce  this  delight 
does  not  reside  in  nature,  but  in  man,  or  in  a  harmony  of 
both.  It  is  necessary  to  use  these  pleasures  with  great  tem- 
perance. For,  nature  is  not  always  tricked  in  holiday  attire, 
but  the  same  scene  which  yesterday  breathed  perfume  and 
glittered  as  for  the  frolic  of  the  nymphs,  is  overspread  with 
melancholy  to-day.  Nature  always  wears  the  colors  of  the 
spirit.  To  a  man  laboring  under  calamity,  the  heat  of  his 
own  fire  hath  sadness  in  it.  Then,  there  is  a  kind  of  con- 
tempt of  the  landscape  felt  by  him  who  has  just  lost  by  death 
a  dear  friend.  The  sky  is  less  grand  as  it  shuts  down  over 
less  worth  in  the  population. 


THIS  relation  between  the  mind  and  matter  is  not  fancied 
by  some  poet,  but  stands  in  the  will  of  God,  and  so  is  free  to 
be  known  by  all  men.  It  appears  to  men,  or  it  does  not  ap- 
pear. When  in  fortunate  hours  we  ponder  this  miracle,  the 


AMERICAN  UTBRATURB.  Ill 

wise  man  doubts,  if,  at  all  other  times,  he  is  not  blind  and 

deaf; 

"Can  these  things  be, 
And  overcome  us  like  a  summer's  cloud, 
Without  our  special  wonder?  " 

for  the  universe  becomes  transparent,  and  the  light  of  higher 
laws  than  its  own  shines  through  it.  It  is  the  standing  prob- 
lem which  has  exercised  the  wonder  and  the  study  of  every 
fine  genius  since  the  world  began  ;  from  the  era  of  the  Egyp- 
tians and  the  Brahmins,  to  that  of  Pythagoras,  of  Plato,  of 
Bacon,  of  Leibnitz,  of  Swedenborg.  There  sits  the  Sphinx 
at  the  roadside,  and  from  age  to  age,  as  each  prophet  comes 
by,  he  tries  his  fortune  at  reading  her  riddle.  There  seems  to 
be  a  necessity  in  spirit  to  manifest  itself  in  material  forms ; 
and  day  and  night,  river  and  storm,  beast  and  bird,  acid  and 
alkali,  pre-exist  in  necessary  Ideas  in  the  mind  of  God,  and 
are  what  they  are  by  virtue  of  preceding  affections,  in  the 
world  of  spirit.  A  Fact  is  the  end  or  last  issue  of  spirit.  The 
visible  creation  is  the  terminus  or  the  circumference  of  the 
invisible  world.  "  Material  objects,"  said  a  French  philoso- 
pher, "  are  necessarily  kinds  of  scorice  of  the  substantial 
thoughts  of  the  Creator,  which  must  always  preserve  an  exact 
relation  to  their  first  origin ;  in  other  words,  visible  nature 
must  have  a  spiritual  and  moral  side.'' 


THUS  is  the  unspeakable  but  intelligible  and  practicable 
meaning  of  the  world  conveyed  to  man,  the  immortal  pupil, 
in  every  object  of  sense.  To  this  one  end  of  Discipline,  all 
parts  of  nature  conspire. 

A  noble  doubt  perpetually  suggests  itself,  whether  this 
end  be  not  the  Final  Cause  of  the  Universe ;  and  whether 
nature  outwardly  exists.  It  is  a  sufficient  account  of  that 
Appearance  we  call  the  World,  that  God  will  teach  a  human 
mind,  and  so  makes  it  the  receiver  of  a  certain  number  of 
congruent  sensations,  which  we  call  sun  and  moon,  man  and 
woman,  house  and  trade.  In  my  utter  impotence  to  test  the 
authenticity  of  the  report  of  my  senses,  to  know  whether  the 
impressions  they  make  on  me  correspond  with  outlying  ob- 
jects, what  difference  does  it  make,  whether  Orion  is  up  there 


112  LITERATURE  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

in  heaven,  or  some  god  paints  the  image  in  the  firmament  oi 
the  soul  ?  The  relations  of  parts  and  the  end  of  the  whole 
remaining  the  same,  what  is  the  difference,  whether  land  and 
sea  interact,  and  worlds  revolve  and  intermingle  without 
number  or  end, — deep  yawning  under  deep,  and  galaxy  bal» 
ancing  galaxy,  throughout  absolute  space, — or,  whether,  with- 
out relations  of  time  and  space,  the  same  appearances  are  in- 
scribed in  the  constant  faith  of  man  ?  Whether  nature  enjoy 
a  substantial  existence  without,  or  is  only  in  the  apocalypse 
of  the  mind,  it  is  alike  useful  and  alike  venerable  to  me.  Be 
it  what  it  may,  it  is  ideal  to  me,  so  long  as  I  cannot  try  the 
accuracy  of  my  senses. 

NAPOLEON. 

(From  *'•  Representative  Men.'*) 

WHEN  a  natural  king  becomes  a  titular  king,  everybody 
is  pleased  and  satisfied.  The  Revolution  entitled  the  strong 
populace  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Antoine,  and  every  horse-boy 
and  powder-monkey  in  the  army,  to  look  on  Napoleon,  as 
flesh  of  his  flesh,  and  the  creature  of  his  party;  but  there  is 
something  in  the  success  of  grand  talent  which  enlists  a  uni- 
versal sympathy.  For,  in  the  prevalence  of  sense  and  spirit 
over  stupidity  and  malversation,  all  reasonable  men  have  an 
interest ;  and,  as  intellectual  beings,  we  feel  the  air  purified 
by  the  electric  shock,  when  material  force  is  overthrown  by 
intellectual  energies.  As  soon  as  we  are  removed  out  of  the 
reach  of  local  and  accidental  partialities,  man  feels  that  Napo- 
leon fights  for  him ;  these  are  honest  victories ;  this  strong 
steam-engine  does  our  work.  Whatever  appeals  to  the  imagi- 
nation, by  transcending  the  ordinary  limits  of  human  ability, 
wonderfully  encourages  and  liberates  us.  This  capacious 
head,  revolving  and  disposing  sovereignly  trains  of  affairs, 
and  animating  such  multitudes  of  agents ;  this  eye,  which 
looked  through  Europe ;  this  prompt  invention ;  this  inex- 
haustible resource : — what  events !  what  romantic  pictures ! 
what  strange  situations ! — when  spying  the  Alps,  by  a  sunset 
in  the  Sicilian  sea ;  drawing  up  his  army  for  battle,  in  sight 
of  the  Pyramids,  and  saying  to  his  troops,  "  From  the  tops  of 
those  pyramids,  forty  centuries  look  down  on  you;"  fording 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  113 

the  Red  Sea ;  wading  in  the  gulf  of  the  Isthmus  of  Suez.  On 
the  shore  of  Ptolemais,  gigantic  projects  agitated  him.  **  Had 
Acre  fallen,  I  should  have  changed  the  face  of  the  world." 
His  army,  on  the  night  of  the  battle  of  Austerlitz,  which  was 
the  anniversary  of  his  inauguration  as  Emperor,  presented 
him  with  a  bouquet  of  forty  standards  taken  in  the  fight. 
Perhaps  it  is  a  little  puerile,  the  pleasure  he  took  in  making 
these  contrasts  glaring ;  as,  when  he  pleased  himself  witli 
making  kings  wait  in  his  ante-chambers,  at  Tilsit,  at  Paris, 
and  at  Erfurt. 

THE  ENGLISH  RACE. 

(From  "English  Traits.") 

BUT  it  is  in  the  deep  traits  of  race  that  the  fortunes  of 
nations  are  written,  and  however  derived,  whether  a  happier 
tribe  or  mixture  of  tribes,  the  air,  or  what  circumstance,  that 
mixed  for  them  the  golden  mean  of  temperament, — here  exists 
the  best  stock  in  the  world,  broad-fronted,  broad-bottomed, 
best  for  depth,  range,  and  equability,  men  of  aplomb  and 
reserves,  great  range  and  many  moods,  strong  instincts,  yet 
apt  for  culture  ;  war-class  as  well  as  clerks ;  earls  and  trades- 
men ;  wise  minority,  as  well  as  foolish  majority;  abysmal  tem- 
perament, hiding  wells  of  wrath  and  glooms  on  which  no 
sunshine  settles ;  alternated  with  a  common  sense  and  human- 
ity which  hold  them  fast  to  every  piece  of  cheerful  duty; 
making  this  temperament  a  sea  to  which  all  storms  are  super- 
ficial ;  a  race  to  which  their  fortunes  flow,  as  if  they  alone  had 
the  elastic  organization  at  once  fine  and  robust  enough  for 
dominion ;  as  if  the  burly  inexpressive,  now  mute  and  con- 
tumacious, now  fierce  and  sharp-tongued  dragon,  which  once 
made  the  island  light  with  his  fiery  breath,  had  bequeathed 
his  ferocity  to  his  conqueror.  They  hide  virtues  under  vices, 
or  the  semblance  of  them.  It  is  the  misshapen  hairy  Scandi- 
navian troll  again,  who  lifts  the  cart  out  of  the  mire,  or 
"threshes  the  corn  that  ten  day -laborers  could  not  end,"  but 
it  is  done  in  the  dark,  and  with  muttered  maledictions.  He 
is  a  churl  with  a  soft  place  in  his  heart,  whose  speech  is  a 
brash  of  bitter  waters,  but  who  loves  to  help  you  at  a  pinch. 
He  says  No,  and  serves  you,  and  your  thanks  disgust  him. 
IX-— 8 


114  WTBRATURB  OF  AI,I<  NATIONS. 

Here  was  lately  a  cross-grained  miser,  odd  and  ugly,  resem- 
bling in  countenance  the  portrait  of  Punch,  with  the  laugh 
left  out ;  rich  by  his  own  industry;  sulking  in  a  lonely  house ; 
who  never  gave  a  dinner  to  any  man,  and  disdained  all 
courtesies ;  yet  as  true  a  worshipper  of  beauty  in  form  and  color 
as  ever  existed,  and  profusely  pouring  over  the  cold  mind  of 
his  countrymen  creations  of  grace  and  truth,  removing  the 
reproach  of  sterility  from  English  art,  catching  from  their 
savage  climate  every  fine  hint,  and  importing  into  their  gal- 
leries every  tint  and  trait  of  sunnier  cities  and  skies  ;  making 
an  era  in  painting ;  and,  when  he  saw  that  the  splendor  of 
one  of  his  pictures  in  the  Exhibition  dimmed  his  rival's  that 
hung  next  it,  secretly  took  a  brush  and  blackened  his  own. 

They  do  not  wear  their  heart  in  their  sleeve  for  daws  to 
peck  at.  They  have  that  phlegm  or  staidness,  which  it  is  a 
compliment  to  disturb.  "  Great  men,"  said  Aristotle,  "  are 
always  of  a  nature  originally  melancholy."  'Tis  the  habit 
of  a  mind  which  attaches  to  abstractions  with  a  passion  which 
gives  vast  results.  They  dare  to  displease,  they  do  not  speak 
to  expectation.  They  like  the  sayers  of  No,  better  than  the 
sayers  of  Yes.  Each  of  them  has  an  opinion  which  he  feels 
it  becomes  him  to  express  all  the  more  that  it  differs  from 
yours.  They  are  meditating  opposition.  This  gravity  is 
inseparable  from  minds  of  great  resources. 

There  is  an  English  hero  superior  to  the  French,  the  Ger- 
man, the  Italian,  or  the  Greek.  When  he  is  brought  to  the 
strife  with  fate,  he  sacrifices  a  richer  material  possession,  and 
on  more  purely  metaphysical  grounds.  He  is  there  with  his 
own  consent,  face  to  face  with  fortune,  which  he  defies.  On 
deliberate  choice,  and  from  grounds  of  character,  he  has 
elected  his  part  to  live  and  die  for,  and  dies  with  grandeur. 
This  race  has  added  new  elements  to  humanity,  and  has  a 
deeper  root  in  the  world. 

They  have  great  range  of  scale,  from  ferocity  to  exquisite 
refinement.  With  larger  scale,  they  have  great  retrieving 
power.  After  running  each  tendency  to  an  extreme,  they  try 
another  tack  with  equal  heat.  More  intellectual  than  other 
races,  when  they  live  with  other  races,  they  do  not  take  their 
language,  but  bestow  their  own.  They  subsidize  other 


AMERICAN   UTKRATURB.  115 

nations,  and  are  not  subsidized.  They  proselyte,  and  are  not 
proselyted.  They  assimilate  other  races  to  themselves,  and 
are  not  assimilated.  The  English  did  not  calculate  the  con- 
quest of  the  Indies.  It  fell  to  their  character.  So  they  ad- 
minister in  different  parts  of  the  world,  the  codes  of  every 
empire  and  race;  in  Canada,  old  French  law;  in  the  Mauri- 
tius, the  Code  Napoleon ;  in  the  West  Indies,  the  edicts  of 
the  Spanish  Cortes ;  in  the  East  Indies,  the  Laws  of  Menu  ; 
in  the  Isle  of  Man,  of  the  Scandinavian  Thing ;  at  the  Cape 
of  Good  Hope,  of  the  old  Netherlands;  and  in  the  Ionian 
Islands,  the  Pandects  of  Justinian. 

DAYS. 

DAUGHTERS  of  Time,  the  hypocritie  days, 

Muffled  and  dumb  like  barefoot  dervishes, 

And  marching  single  in  an  endless  file, 

Bring  diadems  and  fagots  in  their  hands. 

To  each  they  offer  gifts  after  his  will, 

Bread,  kingdoms,  stars,  and  sky  that  holds  them  all. 

I,  in  my  pleached  garden,  watched  the  pomp, 

Forgot  my  morning  wishes,  hastily 

Took  a  few  herbs  and  apples,  and  the  Day 

Turned  and  departed  silent.     I,  too  late, 

Under  her  solemn  fillet  saw  the  scorn. 

CONCORD  FIGHT. 

Hymn  Sung  at  the  Completion  of  the  Concord  Monument,  April  19, 

1836. 
BY  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 

Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 
Here  once  the  embattled  fanners  stood, 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 

The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept ; 

Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps ; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  which  seaward  creeps. 

On  this  green  bank,  by  this  soft  stream, 

We  set  to-day  a  votive  stone ; 
That  memory  may  their  deed  redeem, 

When,  like  our  sires,  our  sons  are  gon«. 


Il6  LITERATURE  OF  AM,  NATIONS. 

Spirit,  that  made  those  heroes  dare 
To  die,  and  leave  their  children  free, 

Bid  Time  and  Nature  gently  spare 
The  shaft  we  raise  to  them  and  Thee. 

THE  LAW  OF  LOVE 

(From  "To  Rhea.") 

WARNING  to  the  blind  and  deaf, 

'T  is  written  on  the  iron  leaf, 

Who  drinks  of  Cupid's  nectar  cup 

Loveth  downward,  and  not  up  ; 

He  who  loves,  of  gods  and  men, 

Shall  not  by  the  same  be  loved  again ; 

His  sweetheart's  idolatry 

Falls,  in  turn,  a  new  degree. 

When  a  god  is  once  beguiled 

By  beauty  of  a  mortal  child, 

And  by  her  radiant  youth  delighted, 

He  is  not  fooled,  but  warily  knoweth 

His  love  shall  never  be  requited. 

And  thus  the  wise  Immortal  doeth. — 

JT  is  his  study  and  delight 

To  bless  that  creature  day  and  night. 

From  all  evils  to  defend  her ; 

In  her  lap  to  pour  all  splendor ; 

To  ransack  earth  for  riches  rare, 

And  fetch  her  stars  to  deck  her  hair : 

He  mixes  music  with  her  thoughts, 

And  saddens  her  with  heavenly  doubts : 

All  grace,  all  good  his  great  heart  knows 

Profuse  in  love,  the  king  bestows : 

Saying,  "Hearken!  Earth,  Sea,  Air! 

This  monument  of  my  despair 

Build  I  to  the  All-Good,  All-Fair. 

Not  for  a  private  good, 

But  I,  from  my  beatitude, 

Albeit  scorned  as  none  was  scorned, 

Adorn  her  as  was  none  adorned. 

I  make  this  maiden  an  ensample 

To  Nature,  through  her  kingdoms  ample, 

Whereby  to  model  newer  races, 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE. 

Statelier  forms,  and  fairer  faces ; 
To  carry  man  to  new  degrees 
Of  power,  and  of  comeliness. 
These  presents  be  the  hostages 
Which  I  pawn  for  my  release. 
See  to  thyself,  O  Universe ! 
Thou  art  better,  and  not  worse." — 
And  the  god,  having  given  all, 
Is  freed  forever  from  his  thrall. 


GIVE  ALL  TO  LOVE. 


GIVE  all  to  love ; 
Obey  thy  heart ; 
Friends,  kindred,  days, 
Estate,  good-fame, 
Plans,  credit,  and  the  Muse,- 
Nothing  refuse. 

'T  is  a  brave  master; 
Let  it  have  scope : 
Follow  it  utterly, 
Hope  beyond  hope : 
High  and  more  high 
It  dives  into  noon, 
With  wing  unspent, 
Untold  intent ; 
But  it  is  a  god, 
Knows  its  own  path, 
And  the  outlets  of  the  sky. 

It  was  not  for  the  mean ; 
It  requireth  courage  stout, 
Souls  above  doubt, 
Valor  unbending,— 
Such  'twill  reward,— 
They  shall  return 
More  than  they  were, 
And  ever  ascending. 

Leave  all  for  love ; 
Yet,  hear  me,  yet, 


One  word  more  thy  heart  be- 
hoved, 

One  pulse  more  of  firm  en- 
deavor,— 
•  Keep  thee  to-day, 

To-morrow,  forever, 

Free  as  an  Arab 

Of  thy  beloved. 

Cling  with  life  to  the  maid  ; 
But  when  the  surprise, 
First  vague  shadow  of  surmise 
Flits  across  her  bosom  young 
Of  a  joy  apart  from  thee, 
Free  be  she,  fancy-free ; 
Nor  thou  detain  her  vesture's 

hem, 

Nor  the  palest  rose  she  flung 
From  her  summer  diadem. 

Though    thou   loved  her  as 

thyself, 

As  a  self  of  purer  clay, 
Though  her  parting  dims  the 

day, 

Stealing  grace  from  all  alive : 
Heartily  know, 
When  half-gods  go, 
The  gods  arrive. 


Jl8  WTKRATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 


THE  PINK  TREE. 

(From  "  Woodnotes  II.") 

What  prizes  the  town  and  the  tower? 

Only  what  the  pine  tree  yields  ; 

Sinew  that  subdued  the  fields  ; 

The  wild-eyed  boy  who  in  the  woods 

Chants  his  hymn  to  hills  and  floods, 

Whom  the  city's  poisoning  spleen 

Made  not  pale,  or  fat,  or  lean ; 

Whose  iron  arms  and  iron  mould 

Know  not  fear,  fatigue,  or  cold. 

I  give  my  rafters  to  his  boat, 

My  billets  to  his  boiler's  throat; 

And  I  will  swim  the  ancient  sea, 

To  float  my  child  to  victory, 

And  grant  to  dwellers  with  the  pine 

Dominion  o'er  the  palm  and  vine. 

Who  leaves  the  pine-tree  leaves  his  friend, 

Unnerves  his  strength,  invites  his  end. 

Cut  a  bough  from  my  parent  stem, 

And  dip  it  in  thy  porcelain  vase ; 

A  little  while  each  russet  gem 

Will  swell  and  rise  with  wonted  grace ; 

But  when  it  seeks  enlarged  supplies, 

The  orphan  of  the  forest  dies. 

Whoso  walks  in  solitude, 

And  inhabiteth  the  wood, 

Choosing  light,  wave,  rock,  and  bird, 

Before  the  money-loving  herd, 

Into  that  forester  shall  pass 

From  these  companions,  power  and  grace; 

Clean  shall  he  be,  without,  within, 

From  the  old  adhering  sin, 

All  ill  dissolving  in  the  light 

Of  his  triumphant  piercing  sight. 

Not  vain,  sour,  nor  frivolous; 

Not  mad,  athirst,  nor  garrulous  ; 

Grave,  chaste,  contented,  though  retired, 

And  of  all  other  men  desired. 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  119 

On  him  the  light  of  star  and  moon 
Shall  fall  with  purer  radiance  down ; 
All  constellations  of  the  sky 
Shed  their  virtue  through  his  eye. 
Him  Nature  giveth  for  defence 
His  formidable  innocence ; 
The  mountain  sap,  the  shells,  the  sea, 
All  spheres,  all  stones,  his  helpers  be ; 
He  shall  never  be  old  ; 
Nor  his  fate  shall  be  foretold ; 
He  shall  meet  the  speeding  year, 
Without  wailing,  without  fear*; 
He  shall  be  happy  in  his  love, 
Like  to  like  shall  joyful  prove ; 
He  shall  be  happy  whilst  he  wooes 
Muse-born,  a  daughter  of  the  Muse. 

THE  DAY'S  RATION. 

WHEN  I  was  born, 

From  all  the  seas  of  strength  Fate  filled  a  chalice, 
Saying,  ' '  This  be  thy  portion,  child ;  this  chalice, 
Less  than  a  lily's,  thou  shalt  daily  draw 
From  my  great  arteries, — nor  less,  nor  more." 
All  substance  the  cunning  chemist  Time 
Melts  down  into  that  liquor  of  my  life,— 
Friends,  foes,  joys,  fortunes,  beauty,  and  disgust. 
And  whether  I  am  angry  or  content, 
Indebted  or  insulted,  loved  or  hurt, 
All  he  distils  into  sidereal  wine 
And  brims  my  little  cup ;  heedless,  alas ! 
Of  all  he  sheds  how  little  it  will  hold, 
How  much  runs  over  on  the  desert  sands. 
To-dajr,  when  friends  approach  and  every  hour 
Brings  book,  or  star-bright  scroll  of  genius, 
The  little  cup  will  hold  not  a  bead  more, 
And  all  the  costly  liquor  runs  to  waste ; 
Nor  gives  the  jealous  lord  one  diamond  drop 
So  to  be  husbanded  for  poorer  days. 

[The  foregoing  selections  are  from  'Emerson's  "  Selected  Poems." 
They  are  used  by  special  permission  of,  and  special  arrangement  with 
the  authorized  publishers,  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.] 


HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW. 


LONGFELLOW,  born  in  1807  and  dying  in  1882,  lived 
through  the  period  of  the  first  and,  so  far,  the  best  American 
literature.  A  New  Englander  of  excellent  family,  he  gradu- 
ated in  a  famous  class  at  the  old  New  England  college  of 
Bowdoin,  and  spent  his  life  in  one  of  the  most  renowned  New 
England  towns,  as  Professor  in  Harvard  for  seventeen  years, 
and  thenceforward  as  the  most  widely  known  of  New  Eng- 
land poets.  Twice — in  1831  and  in  1843 — ne  was  happily 
married ;  four  times,  with  an  interval  of  forty  years  between 
the  first  and  last  visit,  he  sojourned  in  Europe.  Though  not 
rich,  he  never  knew  poverty  ;  he  was  orthodox  in  his  social 
and  moral  views ;  with  the  exception  of  the  terrible  tragedy 
of  the  burning  of  his  second  wife  in  1861,  his  life  was  a  stu- 
dious, uneventful  peace.  He  contemplated  with  intelligence 
and  sympathy  the  life  around  him,  and  it  is  reflected  in  his 
poetry,  enriched  and  enlarged  with  the  tints  and  chiaroscuro 
derived  from  catholic  culture.  Without  a  trace  of  vulgarity, 
without  stooping  to  the  arts  of  the  demagogue  or  falling  into 
the  crudity  of  didacticism,  he  is  the  poet  of  the  people.  The 
abiding  perception  of  the  disproportion  between  human  facts 
and  universal  truths,  which  we  call  humor,  was  lacking  in 
him  ;  but  he  was  always  sincere  and  often  eloquent  and  ele- 
vated. Imagination  he  had,  gently  romantic  rather  than 
grand  and  creative  ;  but  his  success  was  due  to  the  harmony 
of  his  nature,  in  which  was  nothing  discordant  or  out  of 
measure ;  poetry  was  his  normal  utterance.  During  his  long 
career  he  produced  much  that  lacks  permanent  value,  but 

120 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  121 

much  also  that  is  true  and  lasting  poetry.  His  translations 
from  the  German  and  other  foreign  languages  attest  his 
scholarship,  but  do  not  illustrate  his  faculty ;  his  "  Dante's 
Divine  Comedy,"  in  spite  of  its  dignity  and  frequent  felicities, 
is  not  as  a  poem  within  measurable  distance  of  the  original. 
His  prose  books — 4<Outre-Mer,"  in  1834,  "Hyperion"  in  1839, 
and  "Kavanagh,"  ten  years  later,  are  amiable  but  feeble 
books;  "  The  Spanish  Student "  (1843)  and  "The  Golden 
Legend''  (1851)  are  essays  in  drama  which  indicate  the  limi- 
tations of  the  writer.  The  lyric,  the  ballad  and  the  narrative 
poems  are  Longfellow's  true  field,  and  to  them  he  thencefor- 
ward restricted  himself.  In  each  of  them  he  touched  high 
levels.  During  the  Abolition  epoch  he  wrote  effective  poems 
against  slavery,  and  the  Civil  War  elicited  such  fine  ballads 
as  "  The  Cumberland  "  and  "  Paul  Revere,"  the  latter  aiming 
to  stimulate  the  soldier  of  to-day  by  recalling  the  simple 
heroism  of  the  night-rider  of  the  past.  But  in  general  he  pre- 
ferred to  moralize  on  life,  and  to  depict  its  homely  pathos  and 
familiar  charms  and  picturesqueness.  "Excelsior,"  "The 
Psalm  of  Life,"  "The  Day  is  Done,"  "The  Open  Window," 
u  The  Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs,"  "The  Village  Blacksmith" 
and  many  another,  have  entered  into  the  language,  and  de- 
servedly. But  occasionally  he  showed,  as  in  "  Pegasus  in 
Pound,"  that  he  could  make  pure  allegory  vibrate  with  ten- 
derest  life  ;  and  ever  and  anon  he  would  summon  his  energies 
and  achieve  such  long  and  lofty  flights  as  "Evangeline"  or 
"Hiawatha,"  which  contain  poetry  to  be  long  remembered 
among  the  honorable  achievements  of  American  literature. 

In  "Evangeline"  the  two  Acadian  lovers,  parted  by  the 
edict  of  exile,  seek  each  other  for  years,  sometimes  passing, 
unknowing,  almost  within  arm's  reach  ;  and  meet  at  last  only 
when  Gabriel,  dying  in  the  hospital,  is  found  by  Evangeline, 
who,  for  the  sake  of  her  lost  lover,  had  dedicated  herself  to 
the  succor  of  the  suffering  This  beautiful  story  suited  the 
writer's  genius,  and  the  long,  unrhymed  verses  gave  oppor- 
tunity for  the  music  of  words  which  was  among  his  fortunate 
gifts.  There  are  many  passages  of  exquisite  and  haunting 
loveliness ;  that  describing  the  lovers'  meeting  is  Longfel- 
low's best  work ;  and  the  character  of  the  Acadian  maiden 


122  LITERATURE  OP  ALL  NATIONS. 

herself,  gentle,  faithful  and  strong,  is  the  finest  he  ever 
drew. 

' '  Hiawatha  "  has  the  short  meter  and  quaint  simplicity  of 
the  Norse  eddas ;  it  unites  in  an  artistic  group  the  most  pic- 
turesque of  our  Indian  legends.  Nature  and  wild  animals 
play  their  parts  with  men,  women  and  supernatural  creatures, 
as  personages  in  the  drama;  the  Indian  spirit  is  preserved 
throughout,  and  in  this  strange  world  nothing  is  familiar  but 
the  beating  of  the  universal  human  heart,  which  harmonizes 
and  reconciles  all.  The  figure  of  Hiawatha  is  noble,  impressive 
and  lovable,  and  Minnehaha  wins  our  affections  as  she  won 
his.  The  canto  in  which  her  death  is  described  (The  Famine) 
is  deeply  moving  and  beautiful.  The  poem,  ridiculed  at  its 
first  appearance,  has  conquered  respect ;  it  is  a  bold  and 
unique  achievement,  and,  of  itself,  secures  the  author's  re- 
nown. Longfellow  is  one  of  the  least  pretentious  of  poets, 
but  his  importance  may  be  estimated  by  imagining  the  gap 
which  would  be  caused  by  the  absence  of  his  blameless  and 
gracious  figure. 

THE  OPEN  WINDOW. 

THE  old  house  by  the  lindens 

Stood  silent  in  the  shade, 
And  on  the  gravelled  pathway 

The  light  and  shadow  played. 

I  saw  the  nursery  windows 

Wide  open  to  the  air  ; 
But  the  faces  of  the  children, 

They  were  no  longer  there. 

The  large  Newfoundland  house-dog 

Was  standing  by  the  door  ; 
He  looked  for  his  little  playmates, 

Who  would  return  no  more. 

They  walked  not  under  the  lindens, 

They  played  not  in  the  hall , 
But  shadow,  and  silence,  and  sadness, 

Were  hanging  over  all. 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE. 

The  birds  sang  in  the  branches, 
With  sweet,  familiar  tone ; 

But  the  voices  of  the  children 
Will  be  heard  in  dreams  alone  ! 

And  the  boy  that  walked  beside  me, 

He  could  not  understand 
Why  closer  in  mine,  ah  !  closer, 

I  pressed  his  warm,  soft  hand  ! 

PEGASUS  IN  POUND. 

ONCE  into  a  quiet  village, 

Without  haste  and  without  heed, 

In  the  golden  prime  of  morning, 
Strayed  the  poet's  winged  steed. 

It  was  Autumn,  and  incessant 

Piped  the  quails  from  shocks  and  sheaves, 
And,  like  living  coals,  the  apples 

Burned  among  the  withering  leaves. 

Loud  the  clamorous  bell  was  ringing 
From  its  belfry  gaunt  and  grim  : 

'Twas  the  daily  call  to  labor, 
Not  a  triumph  meant  for  him. 

Not  the  less  he  saw  the  landscape, 

In  its  gleaming  vapor  veiled  ; 
Not  the  less  he  breathed  the  odors 

That  the  dying  leaves  exhaled. 

Thus,  upon  the  village  common, 
By  the  school-boys  he  was  found  ; 

And  the  wise  men,  in  their  wisdom, 
Put  him  straightway  into  pound. 

Then  the  sombre  village  crier, 

Ringing  loud  his  brazen  bell, 
Wandered  down  the  street  proclaiming 

There  was  an  estray  to  sell. 

And  the  curious  country  people, 
Rich  and  poor,  and  young  and  old, 


124  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

Came  in  haste  to  see  this  wondrous 
Wing4d  steed,  with  mane  of  gold. 

Thus  the  day  passed,  and  the  evening 
Fell,  with  vapors  cold  and  dim  ; 

But  it  brought  no  food  nor  shelter, 
Brought  no  straw  nor  stall,  for  him. 

c* 

Patiently,  and  still  expectant, 

looked  he  through  the  wooden  bars, 

Saw  the  moon  rise  o'er  the  landscape, 
Saw  the  tranquil,  patient  stars  ; 

Till  at  length  the  bell  at  midnight 
Sounded  from  its  dark  abode, 

And,  from  out  a  neighboring  farm-yard, 
Loud  the  cock  Alectryon  crowed. 

Then,  with  nostrils  wide  distended 
Breaking  from  his  iron  chain, 

And  unfolding  far  his  pinions, 
To  those  stars  he  soared  again. 

On  the  morrow,  when  the  village 
Woke  to  all  its  toil  and  care, 

Lo  !  the  strange  steed  had  departed, 
And  they  knew  not  when  nor  where. 

But  they  found,  upon  the  greensward 
Where  his  struggling  hoofs  had  trod, 

Pure  and  bright,  a  fountain  flowing 
From  the  hoof-marks  in  the  sod. 

From  that  hour,  the  fount  unfailing 
Gladdens  the  whole  region  round, 

Strengthening  all  who  drink  its  waters, 
While  it  soothes  them  with  its  sound. 


THE  CUMBERLAND. 

AT  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay 

On  board  of  the  Cumberland  sloop  of  war ; 
And  at  times  from  the  fortress  across  the  bay 


AMERICAN   LITERATURE.  125 

The  alarum  of  drums  swept  past, 
Of  a  bugle  blast 
From  the  camp  on  shore. 

Then  far  away  to  the  south  uprose 

A  little  feather  of  snow-white  smoke, 
And  we  knew  that  the  iron  ship  of  our  foes 
Was  steadily  steering  its  course 
To  try  the  force 
Of  our  ribs  of  oak. 

Down  upon  us  heavily  runs, 

Silent  and  sullen;  the  floating  fort ; 
Then  comes  a  puff  of  smoke  from  her  guns, 
And  leaps  the  terrible  death, 
With  fiery  breath, 
From  each  open  port. 

We  are  not  idle,  but  send  her  straight 

Defiance  back  in  a  full  broadside ! 
As  hail  rebounds  from  a  roof  of  slate, 
Rebounds  our  heavier  hail 
From  each  iron  scale 
Of  the  monster's  hide. 

"  Strike  your  flag  ! "  the  rebel  cries, 

In  his  arrogant  old  plantation  strain. 
"  Never ! "  our  gallant  Morris  replies ; 

"  It  is  better  to  sink  than  to  yield!" 
And  the  whole  air  pealed 
With  the  cheers  of  our  men. 

Then,  like  a  kraken  huge  and  black, 

She  crushed  our  ribs  in  her  iron  grasp ! 
Down  went  the  Cumberland  all  a  wrack, 
With  a  sudden  shudder  of  death, 
And  the  cannon's  breath 
For  her  dying  gasp. 

Next  morn,  as  the  sun  rose  over  the  bay, 

Still  floated  our  flag  at  the  mainmast  head. 
Lord,  how  beautiful  was  Thy  day  ! 
Every  waft  of  the  air 
Was  a  whisper  of  prayer, 
Or  a  dirge  for  the  dead. 


126  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

Ho !  brave  hearts  that  went  down  in  the  seas! 

Ye  are  at  peace  in  the  troubled  stream ; 
Ho !  brave  land !  with  hearts  like  these, 
Thy  flag,  that  is  rent  in  twain, 
Shall  be  one  again, 
And  without  a  seam ! 


PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE. 

MEANWHILE,  impatient  to  mount  and  ride, 
Booted  and  spurred  with  a  heavy  stride 
On  the  opposite  shore  walked  Paul  Revere. 
Now  he  patted  his  horse's  side, 
Now  gazed  at  the  landscape  far  and  near, 
Then/ impetuous,  stamped  the  earth, 
And  turned  and  tightened  his  saddle  girth  ; 
But  mostly  he  watched  with  eager  search 
The  belfry-tower  of  the  Old  North  Church, 
As  it  rose  above  the  graves  on  the  hill, 
Lonely  and  spectral  and  sombre  and  still. 
And  lo !   as  he  looks,  on  the  belfry's  height 
A  glimmer,  and  then  a  gleam  of  light ! 
He  springs  to  the  saddle,  the  bridle  he  turns, 
But  lingers  and  gazes,  till  full  on  his  sight 
A  second  lamp  in  the  belfry  burns  ! 

A  hurry  of  hoofs  in  a  village  street, 

A  shape  in  the  moonlight,  a  bulk  in  the  dark, 

And  beneath,  from  the  pebbles,  in  passing  a  spark 

Struck  out  by  a  steed  flying  fearless  and  fleet  : 

That  was  all !    And  yet,  through  the  gloom  and  the  light, 

The  fate  of  a  nation  was  riding  that  night ; 

And  the  spark  struck  out  by  that  steed  in  his  flight 

Kindled  the  land  into  flame  with  its  heat. 

He  has  left  the  village  and  mounted  the  steep, 
And  beneath  him,  tranquil  and  broad  and  deep, 
Is  the  Mystic,  meeting  the  ocean  tides ; 
And  under  the  alders,  that  skirt  its  edge, 
Now  soft  on  the  sand,  now  loud  on  the  ledge, 
Is  heard  the  tramp  of  his  steed  as  he  rides. 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE. 

It  was  twelve  by  the  village  clock 

When  he  crossed  the  bridge  into  Medford  town. 

He  heard  the  crowing  of  the  cock, 

And  the  barking  of  the  farmer's  dog,    * 

And  felt  the  damp  of  the  river  fog, 

That  rises  after  the  sun  goes  down. 

It  was  one  by  the  village  clock, 
When  he  galloped  into  Lexington. 
He  saw  the  gilded  weathercock 
Swim  in  the  moonlight  as  he  passed, 


127 


And  the  meeting-house  windows,  blank  and  bare, 

Gaze  at  him  with  a  spectral  glare, 

As  if  they  already  stood  aghast 

At  the  bloody  work  they  would  look  upon. 

It  was  two  by  the  village  clock, 

When  he  came  to  the  bridge  in  Concord  town. 

He  heard  the  bleating  of  the  flock, 

And  the  twitter  of  birds  among  the  trees, 

And  felt  the  breath  of  the  morning  breeze 

Blowing  over  the  meadow*  brown. 


128  WTERATURE  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

And  one  was  safe  and  asleep  in  his  bed 
Who  at  the  bridge  would  be  first  to  fall, 
Who  that  day  would  be  lying  dead, 
Pierced  by  a  British  musket  ball. 

You  know  the  rest.     In  the  books  you  have  read, 
How  the  British  Regulars  fired  and  fled, — 
How  the  farmers  gave  them  ball  for  ball, 
From  behind  each  fence  and  farm-yard  wall, 
Chasing  the  red-coats  down  the  lane, 
Then  crossing  the  fields  to  emerge  again 
Under  the  trees  at  the  turn  of  the  road, 
And  only  pausing  to  fire  and  load. 

So  through  the  night  rode  Paul  Revere  ; 

And  so  through  the  night  went  his  cry  of  alarm 

To  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm, — 

A  cry  of  defiance  and  not  of  fear, 

A  voice  in  the  darkness,  a  knock  at  the  door, 

And  a  word  that  shall  echo  for  evermore ! 

For,  borne  on  the  night-wind  of  the  Past, 

Through  all  our  history,  to  the  last, 

In  the  hour  of  darkness  and  peril  and  need, 

The  people  will  waken  and  listen  to  hear 

The  hurrying  hoof-beats  of  that  steed, 

And  the  midnight  message  of  Paul  Revere. 

HAWTHORNE. 

(MAY  23,  1864.) 
How  beautiful  it  was,  that  one  bright  day 

In  the  long  week  of  rain  ! 
Though  all  its  splendor  could  not  chase  away 

The  omnipresent  pain. 

The  lovely  town  was  white  with  apple-blooms. 

And  the  great  elms  o'erhead 
Dark  shadows  wove  on  their  aerial  looms 

Shot  through  with  golden  thread. 

Across  the  meadows  by  the  gray  old  manse, 

The  historic  river  flowed : 
I  was  as  one  who  wanders  in  a  trance, 

Unconscious  of  his  road. 


AMERICAN   LITERATURE.  129 

The  faces  of  familiar  friends  seemed  strange ; 

Their  voices  I  could  hear, 
And  yet  the  words  they  uttered  seemed  to  change 

Their  meaning  to  my  ear. 

For  the  one  face  I  looked  for  was  not  there, 

The  one  low  voice  was  mute  ; 
Only  an  unseen  presence  filled  the  air, 

And  baffled  my  pursuit. 

Now,  I  look  back,  and  meadow,  manse,  and  stream 

Dimly  my  thought  defines  ; 
I  only  see — a  dream  within  a  dream — 

The  hill-top  hearsed  with  pines. 

I  only  hear  above  his  place  of  rest 

Their  tender  undertone, 
The  infinite  longings  of  a  troubled  breast, 

The  voice  so  like  his  own. 

There  in  seclusion  and  remote  from  men 

The  wizard  hand  lies  cold, 
Which  at  its  topmost  speed  let  fall  the  pen, 

And  left  the  tale  half  told. 

Ah  !  who  shall  lift  that  wand  of  magic  power, 

And  the  lost  clew  regain  ? 
The  unfinished  window  in  Aladdin's  tower 

Unfinished  must  remain  ! 

EVANGBLINE   AND  THE   INDIAN  WOMAN. 

ONCE,  as  they  sat  by  their  evening  fire  there  silently  entered 
Into  the  little  camp  an  Indian  woman,  whose  features 
Wore  deep  traces  of  sorrow,  and  patience  as  great  as  her  sorrow. 
She  was  a  Shawnee  woman  returning  home  to  her  people, 
From  the  far-off  hunting-grounds  of  the  cruel  Camanches, 
Where  her    Canadian   husband,   a  Coureur-des-Bois,  had  been 

murdered. 

Touched  were  their  hearts  at  her  story,  and  warmest  and  friend- 
liest welcome 
Gave  they,  with  words  of  cheer,  and  she  sat  and  fea«ted  among 

them 

On  the  buffalo-meat  and  the  venison  cooked  on  the  embers. 
ix-9 


130  LITERATURE  OF  AU<  NATIONS. 

But  when  their  meal  was  done,  and  Basil  and  all  his  companions, 
Worn  with  the  long  day's  march  and  the  chase  of  the  deer  and 

the  bison, 

Stretched  themselves  on  the  ground,  and  slept  where  the  quiver- 
ing fire-light 
Flashed  on  their  swarthy  cheeks,  and  their  forms  wrapped  up  in 

their  blankets. 

Then  at  the  door  of  Bvangeline's  tent  she  sat  and  repeated 
Slowly,  with  soft,  low  voice,  and  the  charm  of  her  Indian  accent, 
All  the  tale  of  her  love,  with  its  pleasures,  and  pains  and  reverses. 
Much  Kvangeline  wept  at  the  tale,  and  to  know  that  another 
Hapless  heart  like  her  own  had  loved  and  had  been  disappointed. 
Moved  to  the  depths  of  her  soul  by  pity  and  woman's  compassion, 
Yet  in  her  sorrow  pleased  that  one  who  had  suffered  was  near  her, 
She  in  her  turn  related  her  love  and  all  its  disasters. 
Mute  with  wonder  the  Shawnee  sat,  and  when  she  had  ended 
Still  was  mute ;  but  at  length,  as  if  a  mysterious  horror 
Passed  through  her  brain,  she  spake  and  repeated  the  tale  of  the 

Mowis ; 

Mowis,  the  bridegroom  of  snow,  who  won  and  wedded  a  maiden, 
But  when  the  morning  came,  arose  and  passed  from  the  wigwam, 
Fading  and  melting  away  and  dissolving  into  the  sunshine, 
Till  she  beheld  him  no  more,  though  she  followed  far  into  the 

forest. 

Then,  in  those  sweet,  low  tones,  that  seemed  like  a  weird  incan- 
tation, 

Told  she  the  tale  of  the  fair  I/ilinau,  who  was  wooed  by  a  phantom. 
That,  through  the  pines,  o'er  her  father's  lodge,  in  the  hush  of 

the  twilight, 

Breathed  like  the  evening  wind,  and  whispered  love  to  the  maiden, 
Till  she  followed  his  green  and  waving  plume  through  the  forest, 
And  never  more  returned,  nor  was  seen  again  by  her  people. 
Silent  with  wonder  and  strange  surprise,  Evangeline  listened 
To  the  soft  flow  of  her  magical  words,  till  the  region  around  her 
Seemed  like  enchanted  ground,  and  her  swarthy  guest  the  en- 
chantress. 

Slowly  over  the  tops  of  the  Ozark  Mountains  the  moon  rose, 
lighting  the  little  tent,  and  with  a  mysterious  splendor 
Touching  the  sombre  leaves,  and  embracing  and  filling  the  wood- 
land. 

With  a  delicious  sound  the  brook  rushed  by,  and  the  branches 
Swayed  and  sighed  overhead  in  scarcely  audible  whispers. 


AMERICAN  UTBRATURB.  131 

Filled  with  the  thoughts  of  love  was  Evangeline's  heart,  but  a 

secret, 

Subtile  sense  crept  in  of  pain  and  indefinite  terror, 
As  the  cold,  poisonous  snake  creeps  into  the  nest  of  the  swallow. 
It  was  no  earthly  fear.     A  breath  from  the  region  of  spirits 
Seemed  to  float  in  the  air  of  night ;  and  she  felt  for  a  moment 
That,  like  the  Indian  maid,  she,  too,  was  pursuing  a  phantom. 
With  this  thought  she  slept,  and  the  fear  and  the  phantom  had 

vanished. 

EVANGELINE  FINDS  HER  L^OVER. 

THUS,  on  a  Sabbath  morn,  through  the  streets,  deserted  and 

silent, 

Wending  her  quiet  way,  she  entered  the  door  of  the  almshouse. 
Sweet  on  the  summer  air  was  the  odor  of  flowers  in  the  garden ; 
And  she  paused  on  her  way  to  gather  the  fairest  among  them, 
That  the  dying  once  more  might  rejoice  in  their  fragrance  and 

beauty. 
Then,  as  she  mounted  the  stairs  to  the  corridors,  cooled  by  the 

east-wind, 
Distant  and  soft  on  her  ear  fell  the  chimes  from  the  belfry  of 

Christ  Church, 

While,  intermingled  with  these,  across  the  meadows  were  wafted 
Sounds  of  psalms,  that  were  sung  by  the  Swedes  in  their  church 

at  Wicaco. 

Soft  as  descending  wings  fell  the  calm  of  the  hour  on  her  spirit ; 
Something  within  her  said,   "  At  length  my  trials  are  ended  ; " 
And,  with  light  in  her  looks,  she  entered  the  chambers  of  sick- 
ness, 

Noiselesly  moved  about  the  assiduous,  careful  attendants, 
Moistening  the  feverish  lip,  and  the  aching  brow,  and  in  silence 
Closing  the  sightless  eyes  of  the  dead,  and  concealing  their  faces, 
Where  on  their  pallets  they  lay,  like  drifts  of  snow  by  the  roadside. 
Many  a  languid  head,  upraised  as  Evangeline  entered, 
Turned  on  its  pillow  of  pain  to  gaze  while  she  passed,  for  her 

presence 

Fell  on  their  hearts  like  a  ray  of  the  sun  on  the  walls  of  a  prison. 
And,  as  she  looked  around,  she  saw  how  Death,  the  consoler, 
I,aying  his  hand  upon  many  a  heart,  had  healed  it  forever. 
Many  familiar  forms  had  disappeared  in  the  night  tim«  ; 
Vacant  their  places  were,  or  filled  already  by  strangers. 


132  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

Suddenly,  as  if  arrested  by  fear  or  a  feeling  of  wonder, 
Still  she  stood,  with  her  colorless  lips  apart,  while  a  shudder 
Ran  through  her  frame,  and,  forgotten, "the   flowerets  dropped 

from  her  fingers, 

And  from  her  eyes  and  cheeks  the  light  and  bloom  of  the  morning. 
Then  there  escaped  from  her  lips  a  cry  of  such  terrible  anguish, 
That  the  dying  heard  it,  and  started  up  from  their  pillows. 
On  the  pallet  before  her  was  stretched  the  form  of  an  old  man. 
Long,  and  thin,  and  gray  were  the  locks  that  shaded  his  temples ; 
But,  as  he  lay  in  the  morning  light,  his  face  for  a  moment 
Seemed  to  assume  once  more  the  forms  of  its  earlier  manhood  ; 
So  are  wont  to  be  changed  the  faces  of  those  who  are  dying. 
Hot  and  red  on  his  lips  still  burned  the  flush  of  the  fever, 
As  if  life,  like  the  Hebrew,  with  blood  had  besprinkled  its  portals, 
That  the  Angel  of  Death  might  see  the  sign,  and  pass  over. 
Motionless,  senseless,  dying,  he  lay,  and  his  spirit  exhausted 
Seemed  to  be  sinking  down  through  infinite  depths  in  the  dark- 
ness, 

Darkness  of  slumber  and  death,  forever  sinking  and  sinking, 
Then  through  those  realms  of  shade,  in  multiplied  reverberations, 
Heard  he  that  cry  of  pain,  and  through  the  hush  that  succeeded 
Whispered  a  gentle  voice,  in  accents  tender  and  saint-like, 
1 '  Gabriel !  O  my  beloved ! ' '  and  died  away  into  silence. 
Then  he  beheld  in  a  dream,  once  more  the  home  of  his  childhood ; 
Green  Acadian  meadows,  with  sylvan  rivers  among  them  , 
Village,  and  mountain,  and  woodlands ;  and,  walking  under  their 

shadow, 

As  in  the  days  of  her  youth,  Evangeline  rose  in  his  vision. 
Tears  came  into  his  eyes ;  and  as  slowly  he  lifted  his  eyelids, 
Vanished  the  vision  away,  but  Evangeline  knelt  by  his  bedside. 
Vainly  he  strove  to  whisper  her  name,  for  the  accents  unuttered 
Died  on  his  lips,  and  their  motion  revealed  what  his  tongue  would 

have  spoken. 

Vainly  he  strove  to  rise ;  and  Evangeline,  kneeling  beside  him, 
Kissed  his  dying  lips,  and  laid  his  head  on  her  bosom. 
Sweet  was  the  light  of  his  eyes  ;  but  it  suddenly  sank  into  dark- 
ness, 
As  when  a  lamp  is  blown  out  by  a  gust  of  wind  at  a  casement. 

All  was  ended  now,  the  hope,  and  the  fear,  and  the  sorrow, 
All  the  aching  of  heart,  the  restless,  unsatisfied  longing, 
All  the  dull,  deep  pain,  and  constant  anguish  of  patience ! 


AMERICAN  UTERATURE.  133 

And,  as  she  pressed  once  more  the  lifeless  head  to  her  bosom, 
Meekly  she  bowed  her  own,  and  murmured,  "Father,  I  thank 
thee!" 

THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 

(From  the  Introduction.) 

"  IN  the  Vale  of  Tawasentha, 
In  the  green  and  silent  valley, 
By  the  pleasant  water-courses, 
Dwelt  the  singer  Nawadaha. 
Round  about  the  Indian  village 
Spread  the  meadows  and  the  corn-fields, 
And  beyond  them  stood  the  forest, 
Stood  the  groves  of  singing  pine-trees, 
Green  in  Summer,  white  in  Winter, 
Ever  singing,  ever  singing. 

' '  And  the  pleasant  water-courses, 
You  could  trace  them  through  the  valley, 
By  the  rushing  in  the  Spring-time, 
By  the  alders  in  the  Summer, 
By  the  white  fog  in  the  Autumn, 
By  the  black  line  in  the  Winter  ; 
And  beside  them  dwelt  the  singer, 
In  the  vale  of  Tawasentha, 
.  In  the  green  and  silent  valley. 

' '  There  he  sang  of  Hiawatha, 
Sang  the  Song  of  Hiawatha, 
Sang  his  wondrous  birth  and  being, 
How  he  prayed  and  how  he  fasted, 
How  he  lived,  and  toiled,  and  suffered, 
That  the  tribes  of  men  might  prosper, 
That  he  might  advance  his  people !  " 

Ye  who  love  the  haunts  of  Nature, 
Love  the  sunshine  of  the  meadow', 
I/5ve  the  shadow  of  the  forest, 
Love  the  wind  among  the  branches, 
And  the  rain-shower  and  the  snow-storm, 
And  the  rushing  of  great  rivers 
Through  their  palisades  of  pine-trees, 
And  the  thunder  in  the  mountains, 
Whose  innumerable  echoes 
Flap  like  eagles  in  their  eyries ; — 


134  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

Listen  to  these  wild  traditions, 
To  this  Song  of  Hiawatha ! 

Ye  who  love  a  nation's  legends, 
Love  the  ballads  of  a  people, 
That  like  voices  from  afar  off 
Call  to  us  to  pause  and  listen, 
Speak  in  tones  so  plain  and  childlike, 
Scarcely  can  the  ear  distinguish 
Whether  they  are  sung  or  spoken ; — 
Listen  to  this  Indian  Legend, 
To  this  Song  of  Hiawatha ! 

Ye  whose  hearts  are  fresh  and  simple, 
Who  have  faith  in  God  and  Nature, 
Who  believe,  that  in  all  ages 
Every  human  heart  is  human, 
That  in  even  savage  bosoms 
There  are  longings,  yearnings,  strivings 
For  the  good  they  comprehend  not, 
That  the  feeble  hands  and  helpless, 
Groping  blindly  in  the  darkness, 
Touch  God's  right  hand  in  that  darkness 
And  are  lifted  up  and  strengthened ; — 
Listen  to  this  simple  story, 
To  this  Song  of  Hiawatha  ! 

Ye,  who  sometimes,  in  your  rambles 
Through  the  green  lanes  of  the  country. 
Where  the  tangled  barberry-bushes 
Hang  their  tufts  of  crimson  berries 
Over  stone  walls  gray  with  mosses, 
Pause  by  some  neglected  graveyard, 
For  a  while  to  muse,  and  ponder 
On  a  half-effaced  inscription, 
Written  with  little  skill  of  song-craft, 
Homely  phrases,  but  each  letter 
Full  of  hope  and  yet  of  heart-break, 
Full  of  all  the  tender  pathos 
Of  the  Here  and  the  Hereafter  ;— 
Stay  and  read  this  rude  inscription, 
Read  this  Song  of  Hiawatha ! 


AMERICAN   UTKRATUR*.  *35 


EMMA  AND  EGINHARD. 

(From  "Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn.") 
HOME  from  her  convent  to  the  palace  came 
The  lovely  Princess  Emma,  whose  sweet  name, 
Whispered  by  seneschal  or  sung  by  bard, 
Had  often  touched  the  soul  of  Eginhard. 
He  saw  her  from  his  window,  as  in  state 
She  came,  by  knights  attended  through  the  gate ; 
He  saw  her  at  the  banquet  of  that  day, 
Fresh  as  the  morn,  and  beautiful  as  May ; 
He  saw  her  in  the  garden,  as  she  strayed 
Among  the  flowers  of  summer  with  her  maid, 
And  said  to  him,  "O  Eginhard,  disclose 
The  meaning  and  the  mystery  of  the  rose;" 
And  trembling  he  made  answer:  "In  good  sooth, 
Its  mystery  is  love,  its  meaning  youth  I" 

How  can  I  tell  the  signals  and  the  signs 
By  which  one  heart  another  heart  divines? 
How  can  I  tell  the  many  thousand  ways 
By  which  it  keeps  the  secret  it  betrays? 

O  mystery  of  love !     O  strange  romance ! 
Among  the  Peers  and  Paladins  of  France, 
Shining  in  steel,  and  prancing  on  gay  steeds, 
Noble  by  birth,  yet  nobler  by  great  deeds, 
The  Princess  Emma  had  no  words  nor  looks 
But  for  this  clerk,  this  man  of  thought  and  books. 

The  summer  passed,  the  autumn  came ;  the  stalks 
Of  lilies  blackened  in  the  garden  walks ; 
The  leaves  fell,  russet-golden  and  blood-red, 
Love-letters  thought  the  poet  fancy-led, 
Or  Jove  descending  in  a  shower  of  gold 
Into  the  lap  of  Danae  of  old ; 
For  poets  cherish  many  a  strange  conceit, 
And  love  transmutes  all  nature  by  its  heat. 
No  more  the  garden  lessons  nor  the  dark 
And  hurried  meetings  in  the  twilight  park ; 
But  now  the  studious  lamp,  and  the  delights 
Of  firesides  in  the  silent  winter  nights. 


136  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

And  watching  from  his  window  hour  by  hour 
The  light  that  burned  in  Princess  Emma's  tower. 

At  length  one  night,  while  musing  by  the  fire, 

O'ercome  at  last  by  his  insane  desire, — 

For  what  will  reckless  love  not  do  and  dare? — 

He  crossed  the  court,  and  climbed  the  winding  stair, 

With  some  feigned  message  in  the  Emperor's  name; 

But  when  he  to  the  lady's  presence  came 

He  knelt  down  at  her  feet,  until  she  laid 

Her  hand  upon  him,  like  a  naked  blade, 

And  whispered  in  his  ear :  '  *  Arise,  Sir  Knight, 

To  my  heart's  level,  O  my  heart's  delight." 

And  there  he  lingered  till  the  crowing  cock, 
The  Alectryon  of  the  farmyard  and  the  flock, 
Sang  his  aubade  with  lusty  voice  and  clear, 
To  tell  the  sleeping  world  that  dawn  was  near. 
And  then  they  parted ;  but  at  parting,  lo  ! 
They  saw  the  palace  courtyard  white  with  snow, 
And,  placid  as  a  nun,  the  moon  on  high 
Gazing  from  cloudy  cloisters  of  the  sky. 
"Alas!"  he  said,  "how  hide  the  fatal  line 
Of  footprints  leading  from  thy  door  to  mine, 
And  none  returning ! "    Ah,  he  little  knew 
What  woman's  wit,  when  put  to  proof,  can  do ! 

That  night  the  Emperor,  sleepless  with  the  cares 
And  troubles  that  attend  on  state  affairs, 
Had  risen  before  the  dawn,  and  musing  gazed 
Into  the  silent  night,  as  one  amazed 
To  see  the  calm  that  reigned  o'er  all  supreme, 
When  his  own  reign  was  but  a  troubled  dream. 
The  moon  lit  up  the  gables  capped  with  snow, 
And  the  white  roofs,  and  half  the  court  below, 
And  he  beheld  a  form,  that  seemed  to  cower 
Beneath  a  burden,  come  from  Emma's  tower,  - 
A  woman,  who  upon  her  shoulders  bore 
Clerk  Eginhard  to  his  own  private  door, 
And  then  returned  in  haste,  but  still  essayed 
To  tread  the  footprints  she  herself  had  made ; 
And  as  she  passed  across  the  lighted  space, 
The  Emperor  saw  his  daughter  Emma's  face ! 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  137 

He  started  not ;  he  did  not  speak  or  moan, 
But  seemed  as  one  who  hath  been  turned  to  stone ; 
And  stood  there  like  a  statue,  nor  awoke 
Out  of  his  trance  of  pain,  till  morning  broke, 
Till  the  stars  faded,  and  the  moon  went  down, 
And  o'er  the  towers  and  steeples  of  the  town 
Came  the  gray  daylight ;  then  the  sun,  who  took 
The  empire  of  the  world  with  sovereign  look, 
Suffusing  with  a  soft  and  golden  glow 
All  the  dead  landscape  in  its  shroud  of  snow, 
Touching  with  flame  the  tapering  chapel  spires, 
Windows  and  roofs,  and  smoke  of  household  fires, 
And  kindling  park  and  palace  as  he  came ; 
The  stork's  nest  on  the  chimney  seemed  in  flame. 
And  thus  he  stood  till  Eginhard  appeared, 
Demure  and  modest  with  his  comely  beard 
And  flowing  flaxen  tresses,  come  to  ask, 
As  was  his  wont,  the  day's  appointed  task. 
The  Emperor  looked  upon  him  with  a  smile, 
And  gently  said:  "My  son,  wait  yet  a  while; 
This  hour  my  council  meets  upon  some  great 
And  very  urgent  business  of  the  state. 
Come  back  within  the  hour.     On  thy  return 
The  work  appointed  for  thee  shalt  thou  learn." 

Having  dismissed  this  gallant  Troubadour, 
He  summoned  straight  his  council,  and  secure 
And  steadfast  in  his  purpose,  from  the  throne 
All  the  adventure  of  the  night  made  known ; 
Then  asked  for  sentence ;  and  with  eager  breath 
Some  answered  banishment,  and  others  death. 

Then  spake  the  king:  "Your  sentence  is  not  mine; 

Life  is  the  gift  of  God,  and  is  divine ; 

Nor  from  these  palace  walls  shall  one  depart 

Who  carries  such  a  secret  in  his  heart ; 

My  better  judgment  points  another  way. 

Good  Alcuin,  I  remember  how  one  day 

When  my  Pepino  asked  you,  'What  are  men?' 

You  wrote  upon  his  tablets  with  your  pen, 

'  Guests  of  the  grave  and  travelers  that  pass ! ' 

This  being  true  of  all  men,  we,  alas ! 


138  UTERATURS  OF  AI,!,  NATIONS. 

Being  all  fashioned  of  the  self-same  dust, 
Let  us  be  merciful  as  well  as  just ; 
This  passing  traveler,  who  hath  stolen  away 
The  brightest  jewel  of  my  crown  to-day, 
Shall  of  himself  the  precious  gem  restore; 
By  giving  it,  I  make  it  mine  once  more. 
Over  those  fatal  footprints  I  will  throw 
My  ermine  mantle  like  another  snow  " 

Then  Eginhard  was  summoned  to  the  hall, 

And  entered ;  and  in  presence  of  them  all, 

The  Emperor  said :  ' '  My  son,  for  thou  to  me 

Hast  been  a  son,  and  evermore  shalt  be, 

Long  hast  thou  served  thy  sovereign,  and  thy  zeal 

Pleads  to  me  with  importunate  appeal, 

While  I  have  been  forgetful  to  requite 

Thy  service  and  affection  as  was  right. 

But  now  the  hour  is  come,  when  I,  thy  L,ord, 

Will  crown  thy  love  with  such  supreme  reward, 

A  gift  so  precious  kings  have  striven  in  vain 

To  win  it  from  the  hands  of  Charlemagne." 

Then  sprang  the  portals  of  the  chamber  wide, 
And  Princess  Emma  entered  in  the  pride 
Of  birth  and  beauty,  and  in  part  o'ercame 
The  conscious  terror  and  the  blush  of  shame. 
And  the  good  Emperor  rose  up  from  his  throne, 
And  taking  her  white  hand  within  his  own 
Placed  it  in  Eginhard's  and  said :  "  My  son, 
This  is  the  gift  thy  constant  zeal  hath  won  ; 
Thus  I  repay  the  royal  debt  I  owe, 
And  cover  up  the  footprints  in  the  snow." 


[The  selections  from  I/jngfellow's  poems  are  used  by  special  per- 
mission of,  and  by  special  arrangement  with  the  authorized  publishers, 
Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.] 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

AFTER  more  than  fifty  years,  Poe 
is  still  something  of  a  riddle ;  he 
was  unfortunate  in  his  biographers,  who  were  either  eulogists 
or  enemies.  He  was  more  unfortunate  in  himself;  he  had 
not  the  capacity  of  truth,  and  mystified  the  events  of  his 
career.  The  son  of  actors,  his  inherited  histrionic  instinct 
prompted  him  to  act  many  parts,  until  he  lost  the  sense  of  his 
own  individuality.  He  applied  the  great  force  of  his  imagi- 
nation not  only  to  the  production  of  stories,  but  to  the  facts 
of  real  life ;  and  his  morbid  vanity  accented  the  distortion 
thus  produced.  In  him  a  small  and  selfish  nature  was  ever 
at  war  with  a  powerful  and  curious  intellect ;  his  character 
was  a  medley,  fickle,  weak  and  inconsistent.  His  career  is  a 
story  of  petty  vicissitudes  and  ignoble  misfortunes ;  of  bril- 
liant successes  counteracted  by  perverse  and  unworthy  follies. 
He  was  unfaithful  to  his  friends  and  rancorous  against  his 
enemies;  an  unhappy  man,  driven  to  and  fro  by  storms 
largely  of  his  own  raising.  A  congenital  tendency  to  intem- 
perance, ever  confirming  its  hold  upon  him,  darkened  his  life 
and  hastened  his  death,  which  occurred  in  1849,  in  his  forty- 
first  year.  His  wife,  "  Annabel  Lee,"  had  died  two  years  be- 
fore. So  far  as  his  personal  acts  and  passions  are  concerned, 
Poe  might  be  pronounced  insane ;  but  in  the  domain  of  intel- 
lect as  applied  to  literature  he  was  a  unique  and  towering 
genius,  author  of  some  of  the  most  exquisite  and  fascinating 
poetry,  and  of  many  of  the  most  original  and  ingenious  tales 
ever  written  in  this  country.  His  fame  traveled  far  beyond 
his  own  country,  and  he  is  to-day  more  read  in  France  than 
any  other  American  author. 

139 


140  LITERATURE  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

He  was  born  in  Boston  in  1809 ;  his  parents  both  died  in 
Richmond,  Va.,  in  1815.  He  was  then  adopted  by  Mr. 
Allan,  a  rich  Virginian.  From  the  age  of  six  to  twelve  he 
was  at  school  in  England  ;  he  attended  the  University  of  Vir- 
ginia for  a  year,  lost  money  by  gambling,  and  then  disappeared 
for  a  year.  According  to  his  own  story,  he  went  to  aid 
Greece,  but  he  probably  never  got  further  than  London.  In 
1827  he  published,  at  Boston,  his  first  volume  of  poems, 
"  Tamerlane."  He  enlisted  as  a  private  in  the  army,  then 
was  for  nine  months  a  cadet  at  West  Point,  but  was  dismissed 
for  bad  conduct. 

Mr.  Allan  had  hitherto  supported  Poe ;  but  they  now  quar- 
reled, and  the  young  man  of  twenty-one  set  out  to  make  a 
living  by  literature.  A  prize  story,  "A  Manuscript  Found 
in  a  Bottle,"  gained  him  the  friendship  of  J.  P.  Kennedy, 
who  made  him  editor  of  a  Southern  literary  paper  at  a  salary 
of  $10  a  week.  The  circulation  of  the  magazine  increased 
under  his  care ;  and  he  married  his  young  cousin,  Virginia 
Clemm ;  but  he  soon  after  resigned  his  position  and  went  to 
Philadelphia.  He  had  already  written  "Hans  Pfaal"  and 
" Arthur  Gordon  Pym,"  and  he  now  published  the  "Tales  of 
the  Grotesque  and  Arabesque,"  which  confirmed  his  fame.  He 
was  also  fitfully  connected  with  two  or  three  other  periodicals. 
Rewrote  the  "  Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue"  in  1841,  and 
two  years  later  his  u  Gold  Bug "  won  another  prize  of  $100. 
At  the  age  of  five  and  thirty  he  was  back  in  New  York,  writ- 
ing for  N.  P.  Willis's  Mirror  and  other  magazines ;  and  in 
1845  ne  wrote  his  famous  poem  uThe  Raven."  He  also  lec- 
tured and  wrote  critiques,  generally  of  a  scathing  character, 
but  many  of  which  posterity  has  justified.  After  his  wife's 
death,  his  only  work  of  importance  was  "  Eureka,"  a  specula- 
tive analysis  of  the  universe. 

Poe's  stories  fall  into  two  classes,  the  analytical,  of  which 
the  "Gold  Bug"  is  an  example,  and  the  supernatural,  such 
as  "lyigeia."  In  many  of  his  tales,  however,  these  qualities 
are  commingled.  He  was  neither  a  humorist  nor  a  character- 
painter,  and  none  of  his  stories  touch  the  heart ;  the  man  was 
deficient  in  human  sympathies.  They  are  to  a  high  degree 
strange,  impressive  and  ingenious,  faultless  in  workmanship 


AMERICAN   LITERATURE.  H1 

and  structure,  and  masterpieces  of  art.  They  are  finished,  like 
gems,  and  of  permanent  literary  worth ;  yet  they  can  hardly 
be  called  works  of  inspiration ;  they  are  gems,  not  flowers. 
Poe's  style  is  clear,  succinct  and  polished,  but  self-conscious 
and  artificial.  The  stories  are  by  no  means  all  of  equal  merit ; 
Poe  lacked  good  taste,  and  frequently  overstepped  the  bound- 
aries between  the  terrible  and  the  revolting,  the  commonplace 
and  the  simple,  fun  and  buffoonery.  All  his  humorous  tales 
are  dismal  failures.  But  when  he  is  at  his  best,  no  writer 
can  surpass  him ;  we  may  say  that  he  is  unrivalled.  In  poetry, 
Poe  is  if  possible  more  original  and  solitary  than  in  his  prose. 
The  eerie  and  elfin  beauty  of  some  of  his  verses  is  magical ; 
one  is  enchanted  one  knows  not  how.  He  had  theories  in 
poetry,  as  in  prose ;  but  it  is  probable  that  he  squared  his 
theories  with  his  compositions,  more  often  than  the  opposite. 
But  there  is  more  of  art  than  of  heart  even  in  Poe's  poetry ; 
and  we  find  that  we  go  to  him  to  be  entertained  and  stimu- 
lated, but  not  for  the  needs  of  the  deeper  soul.  His  career 
was  pathetic ;  but  his  genius  is  triumphant. 

THE  BELLS. 

HEAR  the  sledges  with  the  bells — 

Silver  bells— 

What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells ! 

How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night ! 

While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 

All  the  heavens,  seem  to  twinkle 

With  a  crystalline  delight ; 

Keeping  time,  time, 

In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme 

To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically  wells 

From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells,— 

From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding-bells — 

Golden  bells ! 

What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  foretells  * 

Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 

How  they  ring  out  their  delight ! 


142  WTSRATURB  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

From  the  molten-golden  notes, 

And  all  in  tune, 

What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 

To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens  while  she  gloats 

On  the  moon ! 

Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells, 

What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells ! 

How  it  swells ! 

How  it  dwells 

On  the  future !    How  it  tells 

Of  the  rapture  that  impels 

To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 

To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells ! 

Hear  the  loud  alarum-bells — 

Brazen  bells ! 

What  a  tale  of  terror  now  their  turbulency  tells : 

In  the  startled  ear  of  night 

How  they  scream  out  their  affright ! 

Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 

They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 

Out  of  tune, 

In  a  clamorous  appeal  to  the  mercy  of  the  fire, 

In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic  fire, 

Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 

With  a  desperate  desire, 

And  a  resolute  endeavor 

Now — now  to  sit,  or  never, 

By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 

Oh,  the  bells,  bells,  bells  ! 

What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 

Of  despair ! 

How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar ! 

What  a  horror  they  outpour 

On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air ! 

Yet  the  ear,  it  fully  knows, 

By  the  twanging 

And  the  clanging, 

How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows ; 


AMERICAN   UTERATURE.  14$ 

Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 

In  the  jangling  and  the  wrangling, 

How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, 

By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the  bells — 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 

In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells  1 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells- 
Iron  bells ! 

What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  monody  compels ! 
In  the  silence  of  the  night, 
How  we  shiver  with  affright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone : 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 
Is  a  groan. 

And  the  people — ah,  the  people, 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 
All  alone, 

And  who,  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 
In  that  muffled  monotone, 
Feel  a  glory,  in  so  rolling 
On  the  human  heart  a  stone : 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman — 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human— 
They  are  Ghouls ; 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls ; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 
Rolls 

A  paean  from  the  bells ! 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 
With  the  paean  of  the  bells ! 
And  he  dances  and  he  yells ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  paeans  of  the  bells ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 
To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells ! 


144  WTERATURE  Otf  AU,  NATIONS. 

Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 

In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells — 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells; 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells— 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 

To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 

THE  RAVEN. 

ONCE  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered,  weak  and 

weary, 

Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgotten  lore  ; 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came  a  tapping. 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my  chamber  door. 
"  'Tis  some  visitor,"  I  muttered,  "tapping  at  my  chamber  door — 
Only  this  and  nothing  more." 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember,  it  was  in  the  bleak  December, 
And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost  upon  the  floor. 
Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow ;  vainly  I  had  sought  to  borrow 
From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow — sorrow  for  the  lost  Lenore — 
For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore — 
Nameless  here  forever  more. 

And  the  silken,  sad,  uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple  curtain 
Thrilled  me  with  fantastic  terrors  never  felt  before ; 
So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,  I  stood  repeating, 
1 '  'Tis  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber  door ; 
Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber  door  ; 
This  it  is,  and  nothing  more." 


Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger ;  hesitating  then  no  longer, 
" Sir,"  said  I,  "or  Madam,  truly  your  forgiveness  I  implore  ; 
But  the  fact  is,  I  was  napping,  and  so  gently  came  your  rapping, 
And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my  chamber  door, 
That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you" — here  I  opened  wide  the 
door:— 

Darkness  there,  and  nothing  more  ! 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I  stood  there,  wondering, 
fearing, 


AMERICAN   UTERATURB.  145 

Doubting,    dreaming  dreams  no  mortal    ever  dared  to  dream 

before ; 

But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave  no  token, 
And  the    only   word    there    spoken   was    the  whispered  word 

"Lenore!" 

This  I  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured  back  the  word  "  Lenore ! " 
Merely  this,  and  nothing  more. 

Back  into  my  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within  me  burning, 
Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping  somewhat  louder  than  before. 
"Surely,"  said  I,    "surely  that  is  something  at   my  window 

lattice ; 

Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is,  and  this  mystery  explore- 
Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment,  and  this  mystery  explore  ; 
'Tis  the  wind,  and  nothing  more ! " 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with  many  a  flirt  and  flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  Raven  of  the  saintly  days  of  yore ; 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he;   not  an  instant  stopped  or 

stayed  he ; 

But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my  chamber  door — 
Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber  door — 
Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into  smiling, 
By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it  wore, 
"Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"  I  said,  "art 

sure  no  craven, 
Ghastly,  grim  and  ancient  Raven,  wandering  from  the  Nightly 

shore — 

Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore !  " 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

Much  I  marvelled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse  so  plainly, 
Though  its  answer  little  meaning — little  relevancy  bore ; 
For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human  being 
Ever  yet  was  blest  with  seeing  bird  above  his  chamber  door — 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his  chamber  door, 
With  such  name  as  ' '  Nevermore. ' ' 

But  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely  on  the  placid  bust,  spoke  only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he  did  outpour. 
Nothing  further  then  he  uttered — not  a  feather  then  he  fluttered— 
ix — 10 


146  UTERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered,   ' '  Other  friends  have  flown 

before — 

On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  hopes  have  flown  before. ' ' 
Then  the  bird  said,  ' '  Nevermore. ' ' 

Startled  at  the  stillness  broken  by  reply  so  aptly  spoken, 
"Doubtless,"  said  I,  "  what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock  and  store, 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master  whom  unmerciful  Disaster 
Followed  fast  and  followed  faster  till  his  songs  one  burden  bore — 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  Hope  that  melancholy  burden  bore 
Of  '  Never — nevermore  ! " ' 

But  the  Raven  still  beguiling  all  my  sad  soul  into  smiling, 
Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird,  and  bust, 

and  door ; 

Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to  linking 
Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird  of  yore — 
What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt  and  ominous  bird  of 
yore 

Meant  in  croaking  * '  Nevermore. ' ' 

Thus  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable  expressing 
To  the  fowl  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned  into  my  bosom's  core  ; 
This,  and  more,  I  sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease  reclining 
On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the  lamp-light  gloated  o'er, 
But  whose  violet  velvet  lining  with  the  lamp-light  gloating  o'er, 
She  shall  press,  ah,  never  more ! 

Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed  from  an  unseen 

censer 

Swung  by  seraphim  whose  footfalls  tinkled  on  the  tufted  floor. 
"Wretch,"  I  cried,  "thy  God  hath  lent  thee— by  those  angels  he 

hath  sent  thee 

Respite — respite  and  nepenthe  from  thy  memories  of  Ignore  ! 
Quaff,  oh,  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe,  and  forget  this  lost  Ignore ! " 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

"Prophet!"    said   I,  "thing  of  evil! — prophet  still,  if  bird  or 

devil ! — 
Whether  Tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest  tossed  thee  here 

ashore, 

Desolate,  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert  land  enchanted — 
On  this  home  by  Horror  haunted — tell  me  truly,  I  implore — 


AMERICAN   LITERATURE.  147 

Is  there — is  there  balm  in  Gilead? — tell  me — tell  me,  I  implore!" 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"Prophet!"  said   I,    "thing  of  evil— prophet  still,  if  bird  or 

devil!" 
By  that   Heaven  that  bends  above  us — by  that  God  we  both 

adore — 

Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden  if,  within  the  distant  Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore — 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden,  whom  the  angels  name  I/enore." 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  fiend!"  I  shrieked 

upstarting — 
"Get   thee   back  into  the  tempest,  and  the  Night's  Plutonian 

shore ! 

Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul  hath  spoken ! 
I<eave  my  loneliness  unbroken  I  quit  the  bust  above  my  door !  • 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form  from  off  my 

door!" 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber  door; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that  is  dreaming, 
And  the  lamplight  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his  shadow  on  the 

floor; 

And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating  on  the  floor 
Shall  be  lifted — nevermore ! 


LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 


LADY  MADELINE  OF  USHER. 

(IN  "  The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher  "  the  narrator  tells  how  he 
assisted  Usher  to  bury  the  body  of  Lady  Madeline  in  a  vault  of  the 
ancient  building.  A  week  later,  on  the  night  of  a  dreadful  storm,  he 
read  to  Usher  from  a  weird  romance.) 

I  paused  abruptly,  and  now  with  a  feeling  of  wild  amaze- 
ment— for  there  could  be  no  doubt  whatever  that,  in  this  in- 
stance, I  did  actually  hear  (although  from  what  direction  it 
proceeded  I  found  it  impossible  to  say)  a  low  and  apparently 
distant,  but  harsh,  protracted  and  most  unusual  screaming  or 
grating  sound — the  exact  counterpart  of  what  my  fancy  had 
already  conjured  up  for  the  dragon's  unnatural  shriek  as  de- 
scribed by  the  romancer. 

Oppressed,  as  I  certainly  was,  upon  the  occurrence  of  this 
second  and  most  extraordinary  coincidence,  by  a  thousand 
conflicting  sensations,  in  which  wonder  and  extreme  terror 
were  predominant,  I  still  retained  sufficient  presence  of  mind 
to  avoid  exciting,  by  any  observation,  the  sensitive  nervous- 
ness of  my  companion.  I  was  by  no  means  certain  that  he 
had  noticed  the  sounds  in  question ;  although,  assuredly,  a 
strange  alteration  had,  during  the  last  few  minutes,  taken 
place  in  his  demeanor.  From  a  position  fronting  my  own,  he 
had  gradually  brought  round  his  chair,  so  as  to  sit  with  his 
face  to  the  door  of  the  chamber ;  and  thus  I  could  but  partially 
perceive  his  features,  although  I  saw  that  his  lips  trembled  as 
if  he  were  murmuring  inaudibly.  His  head  had  dropped  upon 
his  breast — yet  I  knew  that  he  was  not  asleep,  from  the  wide 
and  rigid  opening  of  the  eye  as  I  caught  a  glance  of  it  in  pro- 
file. The  motion  of  his  body,  too,  was  at  variance  with  this 
idea — for  he  rocked  from  side  to  side  with  a  gentle  yet  con- 
stant and  uniform  sway.  Having  rapidly  taken  notice  of  all 
this,  I  resumed  the  narrative  of  Sir  Launcelot,  which  thus 
proceeded : 

u  And  now  the  champion,  having  escaped  from  the  terrible 
fury  of  the  dragon,  bethinking  himself  of  the  brazen  shield, 
and  of  the  breaking  up  of  the  enchantment  which  was  upon 
it,  removed  the  carcass  from  out  of  the  way  before  him,  and 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  149 

approached  valorously  over  the  silver  pavement  of  the  castle 
to  where  the  shield  was  upon  the  wall ;  which  in  sooth  tarried 
not  for  his  full  coming,  but  fell  down  at  his  feet  upon  the 
silver  floor,  with  a  mighty  great  and  terrible  ringing  sound. " 

No  sooner  had  these  syllables  passed  my  lips,  than — as  if 
a  shield  of  brass  had  indeed,  at  the  moment,  fallen  heavily 
upon  a  floor  of  silver — I  became  aware  of  a  distinct,  hollow, 
metallic,  and  clangorous,  yet  apparently  muffled  reverbera- 
tion. Completely  unnerved,  I  leaped  to  my  feet,  but  the 
measured  rocking  movement  of  Usher  was  undisturbed.  I 
rushed  to  the  chair  in  which  he  sat.  His  eyes  were  bent 
fixedly  before  him,  and  throughout  his  whole  countenance 
there  reigned  a  stony  rigidity.  But,  as  I  placed  my  hand 
upon  his  shoulder,  there  came  a  strong  shudder  over  his 
whole  person ;  a  sickly  smile  quivered  about  his  lips ;  and  I 
saw  that  he  spoke  in  a  low,  hurried,  and  gibbering  murmur, 
as  if  unconscious  of  my  presence.  Bending  closely  over  him, 
I  at  length  drank  in  the  hideous  import  of  his  words. 

"  Not  hear  it? — yes,  I  hear  it,  and  have  heard  it.  Long — 
long — long — many  minutes,  many  hours,  many  days  have  I 
heard  it — yet  I  dared  not — oh,  pity  me,  miserable  wretch  that 
I  am  ! — I  dared  not — I  dared  not  speak  !  We  have  put  her 
living  in  the  tomb!  Said  I  not  that  my  senses  were  acute? 
I  now  tell  you  that  I  heard  her  first  feeble  movements  in  the 
hollow  coffin.  I  heard  them — many,  many  days  ago — yet  I 
dared  not — I  dared  not  speak!  And  now — to-night — Ethelred 
— ha  !  ha  ! — the  breaking  of  the  hermit's  door,  and  the  death- 
cry  of  the  dragon,  and  the  clangor  of  the  shield! — say,  rather, 
the  rending  of  her  coffin,  and  the  grating  of  the  iron  hinges 
of  her  prison,  and  her  struggles  within  the  coppered  archway 
of  the  vault !  Oh,  whither  shall  I  fly  ?  Will  she  not  be  here 
anon  ?  Is  she  not  hurrying  to  upbraid  me  for  my  haste?  Have 
I  not  heard  her  footstep  on  the  stair?  Do  I  not  distinguish 
that  heavy  and  horrible  beating  of  her  heart?  Madman  !" — 
here  he  sprang  furiously  to  his  feet,  and  shrieked  out  his  syl- 
lables, as  if  in  the  effort  he  were  giving  up  his  soul — "Mad- 
man !  I  tell  you  that  she  now  stands  without  the  door  f  " 

As  if  in  the  superhuman  energy  of  his  utterance  there  had 
been  found  the  potency  of  a  spell — the  huge  antique  panels 


150  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

to  which  the  speaker  pointed,  threw  slowly  back,  upon  the 
instant,  their  ponderous  and  ebony  jaws.  It  was  the  work  of 
the  rushing  gust — but  then  without  those  doors  there  did 
stand  the  lofty  and  enshrouded  figure  of  the  lady  Madeline 
of  Usher.  There  was  blood  upon  her  white  robes,  and  the 
evidence  of  some  bitter  struggle  upon  every  portion  of  her 
emaciated  frame.  For  a  moment  she  remained  trembling  and 
reeling  to  and  fro  upon  the  threshold — then,  with  a  low  moan- 
ing cry,  fell  heavily  inward  upon  the  person  of  her  brother, 
and  in  her  violent  and  now  final  death-agonies,  bore  him  to 
the  floor  a  corpse,  and  a  victim  to  the  terrors  he  had  antici- 
pated. 

From  that  chamber,  and  from  that  mansion,  I  fled  aghast. 
The  storm  was  still  abroad  in  all  its  wrath  as  I  found  myself 
crossing  the  old  causeway.  Suddenly  there  shot  along  the 
path  a  wild  light,  and  I  turned  out  to  see  whence  a  gleam  so 
unusual  could  have  issued ;  for  the  vast  house  and  its  shadows 
were  alone  behind  me.  The  radiance  was  that  of  the  full, 
setting,  and  blood-red  moon,  which  now  shone  vividly 
through  that  once  barely-discernible  fissure,  of  which  I  have 
before  spoken  as  extending  from  the  roof  of  the  building,  in 
a  zig-zag  direction,  to  the  base.  While  I  gazed,  this  fissure 
rapidly  widened — there  came  a  fierce  breath  of  the  whirlwind 
— the  entire  orb  of  the  satellite  burst  at  once  upon  my  sight — 
my  brain  reeled  as  I  saw  the  mighty  walls  rushing  asunder — 
there  was  a  long  tumultuous  shouting  sound  like  the  voice  of 
a  thousand  waters — and  the  deep  and  dank  tarn  at  my  feet 
closed  suddenly  and  silently  over  the  fragments  of  the 
"House  of  Usher." 

FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK. 

U!N  no  poet,'*  wrote  Bryant  of  Halleck,  "can  be  found 
passages  which  flow  with  more  sweet  and  liquid  smoothness." 
In  his  lifetime  Fitz-Greene  Halleck  was  a  popular  poet,  but 
he  lives  now  only  in  books  of  poetical  selections.  He  pos- 
sessed exquisite  felicity  of  diction  and  a  lively  fancy,  but 
lacked  the  force  and  originality  necessary  to  the  immortals. 
Some  of  his  poems,  however,  are  not  likely  to  be  forgotten, 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  151 

such  as  the  stirring  "  Marco   Bozzaris,"    and  the  exquisite 
lines  on  the  death  of  Joseph  Rodman  Drake. 

Halleck's  life  was  uneventful.  He  was  born  in  Guilford, 
Conn.,  in  1795.  When  a  boy  he  went  to  New  York  and  be- 
came a  clerk  in  a  banking  house,  and  later  for  many  years 
was  confidential  clerk  to  John  Jacob  Astor.  Some  of  his 
earliest  literary  productions  were  written  in  conjunction  with 
his  intimate  friend,  Drake,  and  appeared  in  the  New  York 
Evening  Post,  signed  Croaker  and  Co.  u  Fanny,"  the  longest 
of  his  poems,  was  a  satire  on  New  York  life.  In  1822  he 
visited  Europe,  and  in  1827  he  published  his  first  volume  of 
collected  poems.  This  contains  his  famous  " Marco  Bozzaris,*' 
and  also  the  two  fine  poems,  u  Burns  "  and  "  Alnwick  Castle." 
Receiving  the  bequest  of  an  annuity  from  John  Jacob  Astor 
in  1849,  he  retired  to  his  native  town,  where  he  died  in  1867. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  Jos.  R.  DRAKE. 

THE  good  die  first, 

And  they,  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust, 
Burn  to  the  socket. — WORDSWORTH. 

Green  be  the  turf  above  thee, 

Friend  of  my  better  days  ! 
None  knew  thee  but  to  love  thee, 

Nor  named  thee  but  to  praise. 

Tears  fell,  when  thou  wert  dying, 

From  eyes  unused  to  weep, 
And  long  where  thou  art  lying, 

Will  tears  the  cold  turf  steep. 

When  hearts,  whose  truth  was  proven, 

L,ike  thine,  are  laid  in  earth, 
There  should  a  wreath  be  woven 

To  tell  the  world  their  worth. 

And  I,  who  woke  each  morrow 

To  clasp  thy  hand  in  mine, 
Who  shared  thy  joy  and  sorrow, 

Whose  weal  and  woe  were  thine : 

It  should  be  mine  to  braid  it 
Around  thy  faded  brow, 


152  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

But  I've  in  vain  essayed  it, 
And  feel  I  cannot  now. 

While  memory  bids  me  weep  thee, 
Nor  thoughts  nor  words  are  free, 

The  grief  is  fixed  too  deeply 
That  mourns  a  man  like  thee. 

MARCO  BOZZARIS. 

AT  midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent, 

The  Turk  was  dreaming  of  the  hour 
When  Greece,  her  knee  in  suppliance  bent, 

Should  tremble  at  his  power: 
In  dreams,  through  camp  and  court,  he  bore 
The  trophies  of  a  conqueror  ; 

In  dreams  his  song  of  triumph  heard : 
Then  wore  his  monarch's  signet  ring: 
Then  pressed  that  monarch's  throne — a  king; 
As  wild  his  thoughts,  and  gay  of  wing, 

As  Eden's  garden  bird. 

At  midnight  in  the  forest  shades, 

Bozzaris  ranged  his  Suliote  band, 
True  as  the  steel  of  their  tried  blades, 

Heroes  in  heart  and  hand. 
There  had  the  Persian's  thousands  stood, 
There  had  the  glad  earth  drunk  their  blood 

On  old  Platsea's  day ; 
And  now  there  breathed  that  haunted  air 
The  sons  of  sires  who  conquered  there, 
With  arm  to  strike,  and  soul  to  dare, 

As  quick,  as  far  as  they. 

An  hour  passed  on — the  Turk  awoke ; 

That  bright  dream  was  his  last ; 
He  woke — to  hear  his  sentries  shriek, 
"To  arms!  they  come !  the  Greek!  the  Greek!" 
He  woke— to  die  'midst  flame  and  smoke, 
And  shout,  and  groan,  and  sabre  stroke, 

And  death-shots  falling  thick  and  fast 
As  lightnings  from  the  mountain  cloud ; 
And  heard,  with  voice  as  trumpet  loud, 

Bozzaris  cheer  his  band : 


AMERICAN   LITERATURE.  1 53 

"Strike — till  the  last  armed  foe  expires; 
Strike — for  your  altars  and  your  fires ; 
Strike— for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires; 
God— and  your  native  land ! " 

They  fought — like  brave  men,  long  and  well; 

They  piled  that  ground  with  Moslem  slain, 
They  conquered— but  Bozzaris  fell, 

Bleeding  at  every  vein. 
His  few  surviving  comrades  saw 
His  smile  when  rang  their  proud  hurrah, 

And  the  red  field  was  won  ; 
Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close 
Calmly,  as  to  a  night's  repose, 

Like  flowers  at  set  of  sun. 

Come  to  the  bridal  chamber,  Death ! 

Come  to  the  mother,  when  she  feels, 
For  the  first  time,  her  first-born's  breath; 

Come  when  the  blessed  seals 
That  close  the  pestilence  are  broke, 
And  crowded  cities  wail  its  stroke ; 
Come  in  consumption's  ghastly  form, 
The  earthquake  shock,  the  ocean  storm ; 
Come  when  the  heart  beats  high  and  warm, 

With  banquet  song,  and  dance,  and  wine ; 
And  thou  art  terrible — the  tear, 
The  groan,  the  knell,  the  pall,  the  bier; 
And  all  we  know,  or  dream,  or  fear 

Of  agony,  are  thine. 

But  to  the  hero,  when  his  sword 

Has  won  the  battle  for  the  free, 
Thy  voice  sounds  like  a  prophet's  word; 
And  in  its  hollow  tones  are  heard 

The  thanks  of  millions  yet  to  be. 
Come,  when  his  task  of  fame  is  wrought- 
Come,  with  her  laurel-leaf,  blood-bought — 

Come  in  her  crowning  hour — and  then 
Thy  sunken  eye's  unearthly  light 
To  him  is  welcome  as  the  sight 

Of  sky  and  stars  to  prisoned  men : 
Thy  grasp  is  welcome  as  the  hand 


154  WTERATURE  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

Of  brother  in  a  foreign  land ; 
Thy  summons  welcome  as  the  cry 
That  told  the  Indian  isles  were  nigh 

To  the  world  seeking  Genoese, 
When  the  land  wind,  from  woods  of  palm, 
And  orange  groves,  and  fields  of  balm, 

Blew  o'er  the  Haytian  seas. 

Bozzaris !  with  the  storied  brave 

Greece  nurtured  in  her  glory's  time, 
Rest  thee — there  is  no  prouder  grave, 

Even  in  her  own  proud  clime. 
She  wore  no  funeral  weeds  for  thee, 

Nor  bade  the  dark  hearse  wave  its  plume, 
I^ike  torn  branch  from  death's  leafless  tree 
In  sorrow's  pomp  and  pageantry, 

The  heartless  luxury  of  the  tomb. 
But  she  remembers  thee  as  one 
Long  loved,  and  for  a  season  gone ; 
For  thee  her  poet's  lyre  is  wreathed, 
Her  marble  wrought,  her  music  breathed ; 
For  thee  she  rings  the  birthday  bells ; 
Of  thee  her  babes'  first  lisping  tells ; 
For  thee  her  evening  prayer  is  said 
At  palace  couch  and  cottage  bed ; 
Her  soldier,  closing  with  the  foe, 
Gives  for  thy  sake  a  deadlier  blow, 
His  plighted  maiden,  when  she  fears 
For  him,  the  joy  of  her  young  years, 
Thinks  of  thy  fate,  and  checks  her  tears. 

And  she,  the  mother  of  thy  boys, 
Though  in  her  eye  and  faded  cheek 
Is  read  the  grief  she  will  not  speak, 

The  memory  of  her  buried  joys, 
And  even  she  who  gave  thee  birth, 
Will,  by  their  pilgrim-circled  hearth, 

Talk  of  thy  doom  without  a  sigh : 
For  thou  art  Freedom's  now,  and  Fame's; 
One  of  the  few,  the  immortal  names, 

That  were  not  born  to  die. 


NATHANIEL,  HAWTHORNE. 

THE  story  of  Hawthorne* s  life  is  a  simple 
one.  He  was  born  in  Salem,  Mass.,  in  1804, 
and  as  a  boy  was  brought  up  partly  in  that  ancient  town,  and 
partly  on  the  shores  of  Sebago  Lake,  in  Maine,  where  his 
uncle,  Richard  Manning,  had  an  estate.  His  father,  who  died 
of  fever  in  Surinam,  when  Nathaniel  was  four  years  old,  was 
an  East  India  merchant,  and  captained  his  own  vessel ;  an 
uncle,  Daniel,  had  commanded  a  privateer  in  the  Revolution; 
an  ancestor,  John  Hathorne  (as  the  name  was  then  spelled), 
had  been  a  judge  in  the  witch  trials ;  and  the  first  emigrant, 
William,  the  elder  son  of  the  English  family,  was  a  man  of 
note  in  the  Province,  and  a  major  in  the  Indian  wars.  His 
mother  was  a  woman  of  intellect  and  refinement ;  but  Na- 
thaniel was  the  first  of  the  Hawthornes  to  evince  literary 
proclivities. 

He  was  au  active,  outdoor  boy,  though  fond  of  reading  and 
with  thoughts  of  his  own.  As  a  student  he  was  not  distin- 
guished, either  before  or  during  his  Bowdoin  college  career ; 
but  he  graduated  well  in  the  class  of  1824 ;  Longfellow  was  a 
classmate,  and  Franklin  Pierce  was  in  the  class  ahead  of  him. 
After  graduating  he  lived  in  seclusion  at  his  home  in  Salem 
for  twelve  years,  writing,  meditating,  and  occasionally  pub- 
lishing short  sketches  in  Annuals  and  similar  publications, 
uniformly  over  a  pseudonym.  Before  1840  he  met,  and  in 
1842  he  married  Sophia  Peabody  of  Salem,  and  lived  with 
her  in  "  The  Old  Manse  "  at  Concord,  Mass.  He  had  already 
tried  the  Brook  Farm  community  life,  and  decided  it  was  not 
suited  to  his  requirements.  He  obtained  an  appointment  in 
the  Salein  Custom  House,  and  supported  himself  on  the  salary 

J55 


156  UTERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

derived  therefrom,  and  by  writing  sketches  and  stories.  These 
were  collected  under  the  title  of  "Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse/' 
and  "The  Snow  Image  and  Other  Stories."  He  was  rotated 
out  of  office,  and  in  1850  wrote  "  The  Scarlet  Letter,"  which 
brought  him  fame  here  and  abroad.  Removing  to  Lenox, 
Mass.,  he  produced  "  The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables,"  "  The 
Blithedale  Romance, ' '  evolved  from  his  Brook  Farm  observa- 
tions, and  uThe  Wonder-Book"  and  "Tanglewood  Tales" 
— stories  for  children  based  on  classic  mythology.  Taking  up 
his  residence  for  the  second  time  in  Concord,  at  "  The  Way- 
side," he  wrote  a  campaign  biography  of  his  friend  Franklin 
Pierce,  and  the  latter,  on  his  election  to  the  Presidency  of  the 
United  States,  appointed  Hawthorne  consul  at  Liverpool, 
England.  Shortly  before  the  end  of  his  term  he  resigned  the 
office  and  sojourned  for  two  or  three  years  on  the  Continent. 
Returning  in  1859  to  England,  he  wrote  "  The  Marble  Faun  " 
(published  in  England  under  the  title  of  "  Transformation  "), 
and  came  back  to  America  in  1 860.  The  outbreak  of  the  Civil 
War  the  following  year  interrupted  his  imaginative  work ; 
but  he  published  a  volume  of  English  studies,  "  Our  Old 
Home,"  and  the  first  chapters  of  a  new  romance,  <(  The  Dol- 
liver  Romance,"  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly.  He  died  suddenly 
in  Plymouth,  New  Hampshire,  on  a  journey  for  health  under- 
taken with  Franklin  Pierce,  and  was  buried  in  Concord,  May 
23d,  1864. 

The  story  of  Hawthorne's  mind  and  opinions  may  be 
gathered  from  his  writings,  especially  from  the  shorter  pieces 
contained  in  ' '  Twice-Told  Tales  "  and  "  The  Mosses. ' '  These 
appear  on  the  surface  to  be  merely  imaginative  tales,  exquis- 
itely wrought ;  but  they  embody  profound,  radical  and  some- 
times revolutionary  views  on  all  subjects  of  society  and 
morals.  He  probed  deeply  into  the  mystery  of  human  sin; 
the  revelations  thus  evolved  cast  a  tinge  of  sadness  over  much 
that  he  wrote  ;  but  Hawthorne  was  at  heart  an  optimist,  and 
his  most  searching  analyses  result  in  conclusions  the  most 
hopeful.  The  more  he  is  studied,  the  more  is  the  student 
impressed  with  his  truth,  justice  and  sanity.  Common  sense 
and  the  sense  of  humor  existed  in  him  side  by  side  with  the 
keenest  insight  and  the  finest  imaginative  gifts ;  and  all  that 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  157 

he  wrote  is  rendered  fascinating  by  the  charm  of  a  translu- 
cent, nearly  perfect  literary  style.  Everything  that  he  pro- 
duced was  in  its  degree  a  work  of  art. 

The  four  romances  on  which  his  reputation  chiefly  rests 
belong  in  a  class  by  themselves.  No  other  writer  has  suc- 
ceeded in  mastering  the  principle  on  which  they  are  com- 
posed. There  is  in  them  a  living  spirit  which  creates  its  own 
proper  form.  They  are  wrought  from  within  outwards,  like 
the  growths  of  nature.  The  interest  of  outward  events  is  in 
them  subordinated  to  that  of  the  vicissitudes  of  mind  and 
soul  of  the  characters,  which  are  penetratingly  interpreted. 
There  is  nothing  arbitrary  in  Hawthorne's  treatment ;  but  in 
the  end  he  has  placed  clearly  before  the  reader  the  elements 
of  the  problem,  and  has  suggested  the  solution.  We  rise  from 
his  books  knowing  more  of  life  and  man  than  when  we  took 
them  up,  and  with  better  hopes  of  their  destiny.  The  years 
which  have  passed  since  they  were  written  have  confirmed 
and  exalted  their  value ;  and  Hawthorne  is  now  held  to  be 
the  foremost — instead  of,  as  he  once  wrote,  uthe  obscurest" 
— man  of  letters  in  America. 

Several  studies  of  romances  were  published  posthumously ; 
and  also  the  c<  Note-Books  "  which  he  kept  all  his  life,  and 
which  reveal  the  care  with  which  he  studied  nature  and  man* 
kind.  Their  quality  is  objective,  not  subjective. 

Personally  Hawthorne  was  just  short  of  six  feet  in  height, 
broad-shouldered  and  active  and  strikingly  handsome,  with  a 
large,  dome-like  head,  black  hair  and  brows,  and  dark  blue 
eyes.  His  disposition,  contrary  to  the  general  impression  of 
him,  was  cheerful  and  full  of  sunny  humor.  His  nature  was 
social  and  genial,  but  he  avoided  bores,  and  disliked  to  figure 
in  promiscuous  society.  His  domestic  life  was  entirely  happy, 
and  the  flowering  of  his  genius  is  largely  due  to  the  love  and 
appreciation  and  creative  criticism  which  he  received  from 
his  wife.  His  friends  were  the  men  of  his  time  most  eminent 
in  letters  and  art ;  but  perhaps  the  most  intimate  of  all — 
Franklin  Pierce,  Horatio  Bridge  and  Albert  Pike — were  all 
workers  on  other  than  literary  lines.  They  were  men  whom. 
he  loved  for  their  manly  and  human  qualities,  and  who  were 
faithful  to  him  to  the  end. 


158  LITERATURE  OF  AI,!,  NATIONS. 


HESTER  PRYNNE  AND  THE  PASTOR. 

(From  "The  Scarlet  Letter.") 

SLOWLY  as  the  minister  walked,  he  had  almost  gone  by 
before  Hester  Prynne  could  gather  voice  enough  to  attract 
his  observation.  At  length  she  succeeded. 

" Arthur  Dimmesdale  P'  she  said,  faintly  at  first;  then 
louder,  but  hoarsely,  "  Arthur  Dimmesdale  !" 

"Who  speaks?"  answered  the  minister. 

Gathering  himself  quickly  up,  he  stood  more  erect,  like  a 
man  taken  by  surprise  in  a  mood  to  which  he  was  reluctant 
to  have  witnesses.  Throwing  his  eyes  anxiously  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  voice,  he  indistinctly  beheld  a  form  under  the 
trees,  clad  in  garments  so  sombre,  and  so  little  relieved  from 
the  gray  twilight  into  which  the  clouded  sky  and  the  heavy 
foliage  had  darkened  the  noontide,  that  he  knew  not  whether 
it  were  a  woman  or  a  shadow.  It  may  be,  that  his  pathway 
through  life  was  haunted  thus,  by  a  spectre  that  had  stolen 
out  from  among  his  thoughts. 

He  made  a  step  nigher,  and  discovered  the  scarlet  letter. 

"  Hester!  Hester  Prynne  ! "  said  he.  "Is  it  thou?  Art 
thou  in  life?" 

"Even  so!"  she  answered.  "In  such  life  as  has  been 
mine  these  seven  years  past !  And  thou,  Arthur  Dimmesdale, 
dost  thou  yet  live? " 

It  was  no  wonder  that  they  thus  questioned  one  another's 
actual  and  bodily  existence,  and  even  doubted  of  their  own. 
It  was  with  fear,  and  tremulously,  and,  as  it  were,  by  a  slow, 
reluctant  necessity,  that  Arthur  Dimmesdale  put  forth  his 
hand,  chill  as  death,  and  touched  the  chill  hand  of  Hester 
Prynne.  The  grasp,  cold  as  it  was,  took  away  what  was 
dreariest  in  the  interview.  They  now  felt  themselves,  at 
least,  inhabitants  of  the  same  sphere. 

Without  a  word  more  spoken, — neither  he  nor  she  assum- 
ing the  guidance,  but  with  an  unexpressed  consent, — they 
glided  back  into  the  shadow  of  the  woods,  whence  Hester 
had  emerged,  and  sat  down  on  the  heap  of  moss  where  she 
and  Pearl  had  before  been  sitting.  When  they  found  voice 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  159 

to  speak,  it  was,  at  first,  only  to  utter  remarks  and  inquiries 
such  as  any  two  acquaintance  might  have  made,  about  the 
gloomy  sky,  the  threatening  storm,  and,  next,  the  health  of 
each.  Thus  they  went  onward,  not  boldly,  but  step  by  step, 
into  the  themes  that  were  brooding  deepest  in  their  hearts. 
So  long  estranged  by  fate  and  circumstances,  they  needed 
something  slight  and  casual  to  run  before,  and  throw  open 
the  doors  of  intercourse,  so  that  their  real  thoughts  might  be 
led  across  the  threshold. 

After  a  while,  the  minister  fixed  his  eyes  on  Hester 
Prynne's. 

11  Hester,"  said  he,  "hast  thou  found  peace  ?" 

She  smiled  drearily,  looking  down  upon  her  bosom. 

"  Hast  thou?  "she  asked. 

"None! — nothing  but  despair!''  he  answered.  "What 
else  could  I  look  for,  being  what  I  am,  and  leading  such  a 
life  as  mine?  Were  I  an  atheist, — a  man  devoid  of  con- 
science,— a  wretch  with  coarse  and  brutal  instincts, — I  might 
have  found  peace,  long  ere  now.  Nay,  I  never  should  have 
lost  it !  But,  as  matters  stand  with  my  soul,  whatever  of 
good  capacity  there  originally  was  in  me,  all  of  God's  gifts 
that  were  the  choicest  have  become  the  ministers  of  spiritual 
torment.  Hester,  I  am  most  miserable! " 

"The  people  reverence  thee,"  said  Hester.  "And  surely 
thou  workest  good  among  them !  Doth  this  bring  thee  no 
comfort?*' 

"  More  misery,  Hester ! — only  the  more  misery  ! ' '  answered 
the  clergyman,  with  a  bitter  smile.  uAs  concerns  the  good 
which  I  may  appear  to  do,  I  have  no  faith  in  it.  It  must 
needs  be  a  delusion.  What  can  a  ruined  soul,  like  mine, 
effect  towards  the  redemption  of  other  souls  ? — or  a  polluted 
soul,  towards  their  purification?  And  as  for  the  people's  rev- 
erence, would  that  it  were  turned  to  scorn  and  hatred  !  Canst 
thou  deem  it,  Hester,  a  consolation,  that  I  must  stand  up  in 
my  pulpit,  and  meet  so  many  eyes  turned  upward  to  my  face, 
as  if  the  light  of  heaven  were  beaming  from  it ! — must  see  my 
flock  hungry  for  the  truth,  and  listening  to  my  words  as  if  a 
tongue  of  Pentecost  were  speaking ! — and  then  look  inward, 
and  discern  the  black  reality  of  what  they  idolize  ?  I  have 


160  UTBRATURB  OF  AI<I,  NATIONS. 

laughed,  in  bitterness  and  agony  of  heart,  at  the  contrast  be. 
tween  what  I  seem  and  what  I  am  !  And  Satan  laughs  at  it ! " 

"  You  wrong  yourself  in  this,"  said  Hester,  gently.  "You 
have  deeply  and  sorely  repented.  Your  sin  is  left  behind  you, 
in  the  days  long  past.  Your  present  life  is  not  less  holy,  in 
very  truth,  than  it  seems  in  people's  eyes.  Is  there  no  reality 
in  the  penitence  thus  sealed  and  witnessed  by  good  works  ? 
And  wherefore  should  it  not  bring  you  peace  ?  " 

u  No,  Hester,  no  ! "  replied  the  clergyman.  "  There  is  no 
substance  in  it !  It  is  cold  and  dead,  and  can  do  nothing  for 
me !  Of  penance,  I  have  had  enough  !  Of  penitence,  there 
has  been  none  !  Else,  I  should  long  ago  have  thrown  off  these 
garments  of  mock  holiness,  and  have  shown  myself  to  man- 
kind as  they  will  see  me  at  the  judgment-seat.  Happy  are 
you,  Hester,  that  wear  the  scarlet  letter  openly  upon  your 
bosom !  Mine  burns  in  secret !  Thou  little  knowest  what  a 
relief  it  is,  after  the  torment  of  a  seven  years'  cheat,  to  look 
into  an  eye  that  recognizes  me  for  what  I  am  !  Had  I  one 
friend, — or  were  it  my  worst  enemy  ! — to  whom,  when  sick- 
ened with  the  praises  of  all  other  men,  I  could  daily  betake 
myself,  and  be  known  as  the  vilest  of  all  sinners,  methinks 
my  soul  might  keep  itself  alive  thereby.  Even  thus  much 
of  truth  would  save  me !  But  now,  it  is  all  falsehood  ! — all 
emptiness  ! — all  death  !  " 

Hester  Prynne  looked  into  his  face,  but  hesitated  to  speak. 
Yet,  uttering  his  long-restrained  emotions  so  vehemently  as 
he  did,  his  words  here  offered  her  the  very  point  of  circum- 
stances in  which  to  interpose  what  she  came  to  say.  She 
conquered  her  fears  and  spoke. 

"Such  a  friend  as  thou  hast  even  now  wished  for,"  said 
she,  "  with  whom  to  weep  over  thy  sin,  thou  hast  in  me,  the 
partner  of  it ! " — Again  she  hesitated,  but  brought  out  the 
words  with  an  effort.—"  Thou  hast  long  had  such  an  enemy, 
and  dwellest  with  him,  under  the  same  roof ! ' ' 

The  minister  started  to  his  feet,  gasping  for  breath,  and 
clutching  at  his  heart,  as  if  he  would  have  torn  it  out  of  his 
bosom. 

"  Ha !  What  sayest  thou  ?  "  cried  he.  ' '  An  enemy !  And 
dnder  mine  own  roof !  What  mean  you  ?  " 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  l6l 

Hester  Prynne  was  now  fully  sensible  of  the  deep  injury 
for  which  she  was  responsible  to  this  unhappy  man,  in  per- 
mitting him  to  lie  for  so  many  years,  or,  indeed,  for  a  single 
moment,  at  the  mercy  of  one  whose  purposes  could  not  be 
other  than  malevolent. 

"  O  Arthur,"  cried  she,  "  forgive  me!  In  all  things  else, 
I  have  striven  to  be  true !  Truth  was  the  one  virtue  which  I 
might  have  held  fast,  and  did  hold  fast,  through  all  extremity ; 
save  when  thy  good, — thy  life, — thy  fame, — were  put  in  ques- 
tion !  Then  I  consented  to  a  deception.  But  a  lie  is  never 
good,  even  though  death  threaten  on  the  other  side !  Dost 
thou  not  see  what  I  would  say?  That  old  man! — the  physL 
cian, — he  whom  they  call  Roger  Chillingworth  ! — he  was  my 
husband !" 

The  minister  looked  at  her,  for  an  instant,  with  all  that 
violence  of  passion,  which — intermixed,  in  more  shapes  than 
one,  with  his  higher,  purer,  softer  qualities, — was,  in  fact,  the 
portion  of  him  which  the  Devil  claimed,  and  through  which 
he  sought  to  win  the  rest.  Never  was  there  a  blacker  or  a 
fiercer  frown  than  Hester  now  encountered.  For  the  brief 
space  that  it  lasted,  it  was  a  dark  transfiguration.  But  his 
character  had  been  so  much  enfeebled  by  suffering,  that  even 
its  lower  energies  were  incapable  of  more  than  a  temporary 
struggle.  He  sank  down  on  the  ground,  and  buried  his  face 
in  his  hands. 

"I  might  have  known  it,"  murmured  he.  "I  did  know 
it !  Was  not  the  secret  told  me,  in  the  natural  recoil  of  my 
heart,  at  the  first  sight  of  him,  and  as  often  as  I  have  seen 
him  since  ?  Why  did  I  not  understand  ?  O  Hester  Prynne, 
thou  little,  little  knowest  all  the  horror  of  this  thing !  And 
the  shame ! — the  indelicacy ! — the  horrible  ugliness  of  this 
exposure  of  a  sick  and  guilty  heart  to  the  very  eye  that  would 
gloat  over  it !  Woman,  woman,  thou  art  accountable  for  this ! 
I  cannot  forgive  thee  !  n 

"Thoushalt  forgive  me !"  cried  Hester,  flinging  herself 
on  the  fallen  leaves  beside  him.  "  I^et  God  punish  !  Thou 
shalt  forgive !" 

With  sudden  and  desperate  tenderness,  she  threw  her  arms 
around  him,  and  pressed  his  head  against  her  bosom,  little 

IX— II 


1 62  WTERATUR3  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

caring  though  his  cheek  rested  on  the  scarlet  letter.  He 
would  have  released  himself,  but  strove  in  vain  to  do  so. 
Hester  would  not  set  him  free,  lest  he  should  look  her  sternly 
in  the  face.  All  the  world  had  frowned  on  her, — for  seven 
long  years  had  it  frowned  upon  this  lonely  woman, — and  still 
she  bore  it  all,  nor  ever  once  turned  away  her  firm,  sad  eyes. 
Heaven,  likewise,  had  frowned  upon  her,  and  she  had  not 
died.  But  the  frown  of  this  pale,  weak,  sinful,  and  sorrow- 
stricken  man  was  what  Hester  could  not  bear,  and  live ! 

"Wilt  thou  yet  forgive  me?  "  she  repeated,  over  and  over 
again.  "  Wilt  thou  not  frown ?  Wilt  thou  forgive?  " 

"  I  do  forgive  you,  Hester,"  replied  the  minister,  at  length, 
with  a  deep  utterance,  out  of  an  abyss  of  sadness,  but  no 
anger.  "  I  freely  forgive  you  now.  May  God  forgive  us  both  ! " 

DONATELLO  AND  THE  MARBLE   FAUN. 

Of  these  four  friends  of  ours,  three  were  artists,  or  con- 
nected with  art ;  and  at  this  moment  they  had  been  simul- 
taneously struck  by  a  resemblance  between  one  of  the  antique 
statues — a  well-known  masterpiece  of  Grecian  sculpture — and 
a  young  Italian,  the  fourth  member  of  their  party. 

"You  must  needs  confess,  Kenyon,"  said  a  dark-eyed 
young  woman,  whom  her  friends  called  Miriam,  ( '  that  you 
never  chiseled  out  of  marble,  nor  wrought  out  of  clay,  a  more 
vivid  likeness  than  this — cunning  a  bust-maker  as  you  think 
yourself.  The  portraiture  is  perfect  in  character,  sentiment, 
and  features.  If  it  were  a  picture,  the  resemblance  might  be 
half-illusive  and  imaginary  ;  but  here,  in  this  Pentelic  marble, 
it  is  a  substantial  fact,  and  may  be  tested  by  absolute  touch 
and  measurement.  Our  friend  Donatello  is  the  very  Faun  of 
Praxiteles.  Is  it  not  true,  Hilda?  " 

"  Not  quite — almost — yes,  I  really  think  so,"  replied  Hilda, 
a  slender,  brown-haired  New  England  girl,  whose  perceptions 
of  form  and  expression  were  wonderfully  clear  and  delicate. 
"If  there  is  any  difference  between  the  two  faces,  the  reason 
may  be,  I,  suppose,  that  the  Faun  dwelt  in  the  woods  and 
fields,  and  consorted  with  his  like  ;  while  Donatello  has  known 
cities  a  little,  and  such  people  as  ourselves.  But  the  resem- 
blance is  very  close,  and  very  strange." 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  l63 

"  Not  so  strange,"  whispered  Miriam,  mischievously,  "for 
no  Faun  in  Arcadia  was  ever  a  greater  simpleton  than  Dona- 
tello.  He  has  hardly  a  man's  share  of  wit,  small  as  that  may 
be.  It  is  a  pity  there  are  no  longer  any  of  this  congenial  race 
of  rustic  creatures  for  our  friend  to  consort  with  ! " 

"  Hush,  naughty  one ! "  returned  Hilda.  "  You  are  very 
ungrateful,  for  you  well  know  he  has  wit  enough  to  worship 
you,  at  all  e vents. " 

"  Then  the  greater  fool  he ! "  said  Miriam,  so  bitterly  that 
Hilda's  quiet  eyes  were  somewhat  startled. 

"  Donatello,  my  dear  friend,"  said  Kenyon,  in  Italian, 
"pray  gratify  us  all  by  taking  the  exact  attitude  of  this  statue." 

The  young  man  laughed,  and  threw  himself  into  the  posi- 
tion in  which  the  statue  had  been  standing  for  two  or  three 
thousand  years.  In  truth,  allowing  for  the  difference  of  cos- 
tume, and  if  a  lion's  skin  could  have  been  substituted  for  his 
modern  talma,  and  a  rustic  pipe  for  his  stick,  Donatello  might 
have  figured  perfectly  as  the  marble  Faun,  miraculously  soft- 
ened into  flesh  and  blood. 

"  Yes,  the  resemblance  is  wonderful,"  observed  Kenyon, 
after  examining  the  marble  and  the  man  with  the  accuracy  of 
a  sculptor's  eye.  "  There  is  one  point,  however,  or,  rather, 
two  points,  in  respect  to  which  our  friend  Donatello's  abun- 
dant curls  will  not  permit  us  to  say  whether  the  likeness  is 
carried  into  minute  detail."  And  the  sculptor  directed  the 
attention  of  the  party  to  the  ears  of  the  beautiful  statue  which 
they  were  contemplating.  .  .  . 

The  Faun  is  the  marble  image  of  a  young  man,  leaning 
his  right  arm  on  the  trunk  or  stump  of  a  tree ;  one  hand 
hangs  carelessly  by  his  side ;  in  the  other  he  holds  the  frag- 
ment of  a  pipe,  or  some  such  sylvan  instrument  of  music.  His 
only  garment — a  lion's  skin,  with  the  claws  upon  his  shoulder 
— falls  half  way  down  his  back,  leaving  the  limbs  and  entire 
front  of  the  figure  nude.  The  form,  thus  displayed,  is  mar- 
vellously graceful,  but  has  a  fuller  and  more  rounded  outline, 
more  flesh,  and  less  of  heroic  muscle,  than  the  old  sculptors 
were  wont  to  assign  to  their  types  of  masculine  beauty.  The 
character  of  the  face  corresponds  with  the  figure  ;  it  is  most 
agreeable  in  outline  and  feature,  but  rounded  and  somewhat 


T64  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

voluptuously  developed  about  the  throat  and  chin ;  the  nose 
is  almost  straight,  but  very  slightly  curves  inward,  thereby 
acquiring  an  indescribable  charm  of  geniality  and  humor;  the 
mouth,  with  its  full  yet  delicate  lips,  seems  so  nearly  to  smile 
outright,  that  it  calls  forth  a  responsive  smile.  The  whole 
statue — unlike  anything  else  that  was  ever  wrought  in  that 
severe  material  of  marble — conveys  the  idea  of  an  amiable 
and  sensual  creature,  easy,  mirthful,  apt  for  jollity,  yet  not 
incapable  of  being  touched  by  pathos.  It  is  impossible  to 
gaze  long  at  this  stone  image  without  conceiving  a  kindly 
sentiment  towards  it,  as  if  its  substance  were  warm  to  the 
touch,  and  imbued  with  actual  life.  It  comes  very  close  to 
some  of  our  pleasantest  sympathies. 

Perhaps  it  is  the  very  lack  of  moral  severity,  of  any  high 
and  heroic  ingredient  in  the  character  of  the  Faun,  that  makes 
it  so  delightful  an  object  to  the  human  eye,  and  to  the  frailty 
of  the  human  heart.  The  being  here  represented  is  endowed 
with  no  principle  of  virtue,  and  would  be  incapable  of  com- 
prehending such  ;  but  he  would  be  true  and  honest  by  dint  of 
his  simplicity.  We  should  expect  from  him  no  sacrifice  or 
effort  for  an  abstract  cause.  There  is  not  an  atom  of  martyr's 
stuff  in  all  that  softened  marble ;  but  he  has  a  capacity  for 
strong  and  warm  attachment,  and  might  act  devotedly  through 
its  impulse,  and  even  die  for  it  at  need.  It  is  possible,  too, 
that  the  Faun  might  be  educated  through  the  medium  of  his 
emotions,  so  that  the  coarser  animal  portion  of  his  nature 
might  eventually  be  thrown  into  the  background^  though 
never  utterly  expelled. 

The  animal  nature  indeed  is  the  most  essential  part  of  the 
Faun's  composition  ;  for  the  characteristics  of  the  brute  crea- 
tion meet  and  combine  with  those  of  humanity  in  this  strange 
yet  true  and  natural  conception  of  antique  poetry  and  art. 
Praxiteles  has  subtly  diffused  throughout  his  work  that  mute 
mystery  which  so  hopelessly  perplexes  us  whenever  we  attempt 
to  gain  an  intellectual  or  sympathetic  knowledge  of  the  lower 
orders  of  creation.  The  riddle  is  indicated,  however,  only  by 
two  definite  signs:  these  are  the  two  ears  of  the  Faun,  which 
are  leaf-shaped,  terminating  in  little  peaks,  like  those  of  some 
species  of  animals.  Though  not  so  seen  in  the  marble,  they 


AMERICAN  UTBRATURB.  165 

are  probably  to  be  considered  as  clothed  in  fine,  downy  fur. 
In  the  coarser  representations  of  this  class  of  mythological 
creatures  there  is  another  token  of  brute  kindred — a  certain 
caudal  appendage ;  which,  if  the  Faun  of  Praxiteles  must  be 
supposed  to  possess  it  at  all,  is  hidden  by  the  lion's  skin  that 
forms  his  garment.  The  pointed  and  furry  ears,  therefore, 
are  the  sole  indications  of  his  wild  forest  nature. 

Only  a  sculptor  of  the  finest  imagination,  the  most  deli- 
cate taste,  the  sweetest  feeling,  and  the  rarest  artistic  skill — 
in  a  word,  a  sculptor  and  a  poet  too — could  have  first  dreamed 
of  a  Faun  in  this  guise,  and  then  have  succeeded  in  imprison- 
ing the  sportive  and  frisky  thing  in  marble.  Neither  man 
nor  animal,  and  yet  no  monster ;  but  a  being  in  whom  both 
races  meet  on  friendly  ground.  The  idea  grows  coarse  as  we 
handle  it,  and  hardens  in  our  grasp.  But  if  the  spectator 
broods  long  over  the  statue,  he  will  be  conscious  of  its  spell. 
All  the  pleasantness  of  sylvan  life,  all  the  genial  and  happy 
characteristics  of  creatures  that  dwell  in  woods  and  fields, 
will  seem  to  be  mingled  and  kneaded  into  one  substance, 
along  with  the  kindred  qualities  in  the  human  soul.  Trees, 
grass,  flowers,  woodland  streamlets,  cattle,  deer,  and  unso- 
phisticated man !  The  essence  of  all  these  was  compressed 
long  ago,  and  still  exists  in  that  discolored  marble  surface  of 
the  Faun  of  Praxiteles.  .  .  . 

"Donatello,"  playfully  cried  Miriam,  "do  not  leave  us  in 
this  perplexity  !  Shake  aside  those  brown  curls,  my  friend, 
and  let  us  see  whether  this  marvellous  resemblance  extends  to 
the  tips  of  the  ears.  If  so,  we  shall  like  you  all  the  better ! " 

"  No,  no,  dearest  Signorina,"  answered  Donatello,  laugh- 
ing, but  with  a  certain  earnestness.  "I  entreat  you  to  take 
the  tips  of  my  ears  for  granted.' '  And  as  he  spoke  the  young 
Italian  made  a  skip  and  a  jump,  quite  light  enough  for  a  ver- 
itable Faun,  so  as  to  place  himself  beyond  the  reach  of  the 
fair  hand  that  was  outstretched,  as  if  to  settle  the  matter  by 
actual  examination.  "  I  shall  be  like  a  wolf  of  the  Apen- 
nines,'7 he  continued,  taking  his  stand  on  the  other  side  of 
the  Dying  Gladiator,  "  if  you  touch  my  ears  ever  so  softly. 
None  of  my  race  could  endure  it.  It  has  always  been  a  tender 
point  with  my  forefathers  and  me." 


1 66  UTERATURB  OF  AI«I,  NATIONS. 

He  spoke  in  Italian,  with  the  Tuscan  rusticity  of  accent, 
and  an  unshaped  sort  of  utterance,  betokening  that  he  must 
heretofore  have  been  chiefly  conversant  with  rural  people. 

"Well,  well/'  said  Miriam,  u  your  tender  point  shall — your 
two  tender  points,  if  you  have  them — be  safe  so  far  as  I  am 
concerned.  But  how  strange  this  likeness  is,  after  all !  and 
how  delightful,  if  it  really  includes  the  pointed  ears  !  Oh,  it 
is  impossible,  of  course,"  she  continued  in  English,  "with  a 
real  and  commonplace  young  man  like  Donatello ;  but  you 
see  how  this  peculiarity  defines  the  portion  of  the  Faun  ;  and 
while  putting  him  where  he  cannot  exactly  assert  his  brother- 
hood, still  disposes  us  kindly  towards  the  kindred  creature.  He 
is  not  supernatural,  but  just  on  the  verge  of  nature,  and  yet 
within  it.  What  is  the  nameless  charm  of  this  idea,  Hilda? 
You  can  feel  it  more  delicately  than  I." 

"It  perplexes  me,"  said  Hilda,  thoughtfully,  and  shrink- 
ing a  little  ;  "  neither  do  I  quite  like  to  think  about  it." 

"  But  surely,"  said  Kenyon,  "you  agree  with  Miriam  and 
me,  that  there  is  something  very  touching  and  impressive  in 
this  statue  of  the  Faun.  In  some  long  past  age  he  really 
must  have  existed.  Nature  needed,  and  still  needs,  this 
beautiful  creature;  standing  betwixt  man  and  animal,  sympa- 
thizing with  each,  comprehending  the  speech  of  either  race, 
and  interpreting  the  whole  existence  of  one  to  the  other. 
What  a  pity  that  he  has  forever  vanished  from  the  hard  and 
dusty  paths  of  life — unless,"  added  the  sculptor,  in  a  sportive 
whisper,  "  Donatello  be  actually  he  !  n 

"  You  cannot  conceive  how  this  fantasy  takes  hold  of  me," 
responded  Miriam,  between  jest  and  earnest.  u  Imagine,  now, 
a  real  being  similar  to  this  mystic  Faun,  how  happy,  how 
genial,  how  satisfactory  would  be  his  life;  enjoying  the  warm, 
sensuous,  earthly  side  of  his  nature;  reveling  in  the  merri- 
ment of  woods  and  streams ;  living  as  our  four-footed  kindred 
do — as  mankind  did  in  its  innocent  childhood;  before  sin, 
sorrow,  or  mortality  itself  had  even  been  thought  of!  Ah  ! 
Kenyon,  if  Hilda  and  you  and  I — if  I  at  least — had  pointed 
ears !  For  I  suppose  the  Faun  had  no  conscience,  no  remorses, 
no  burthen  on  the  heart,  no  troublesome  reflections  of  any  sort; 
no  dark  future  either. } ' 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  167 

MIRIAM  AND  HILDA. 

(From  "The  Marble  Faun.") 

HILDA  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  When  her 
friend  made  a  step  or  two  from  the  door,  she  put  forth  her 
hands  with  an  involuntary  repellent  gesture,  so  expressive, 
that  Miriam  at  once  felt  a  great  chasm  opening  itself  between 
them  two.  They  might  gaze  at  one  another  from  the  oppo- 
site side,  but  without  the  possibility  of  ever  meeting  more ; 
or,  at  least,  since  the  chasm  could  never  be  bridged  over,  they 
must  tread  the  whole  round  of  Eternity  to  meet  on  the  other 
side.  There  was  even  a  terror  in  the  thought  of  their  meet- 
ing again.  It  was  as  if  Hilda  or  Miriam  were  dead,  and  could 
no  longer  hold  intercourse  without  violating  a  spiritual  law. 

Yet,  in  the  wantonness  of  her  despair,  Miriam  made  one 
more  step  towards  the  friend  whom  she  had  lost. 

"  Do  not  come  nearer,  Miriam  P  said  Hilda. 

Her  look  and  tone  were  those  of  sorrowful  entreaty,  and 
yet  they  expressed  a  kind  of  confidence,  as  if  the  girl  were 
conscious  of  a  safeguard  that  could  not  be  violated. 

"  What  has  happened  between  us,  Hilda?  "  asked  Miriam. 
"Are  we  not  friends?" 

"  No,  no  !  "  said  Hilda,  shuddering. 

"At  least  we  have  been  friends,'7  continued  Miriam.  "I 
loved  you  dearly !  I  love  you  still !  You  were  to  me  as  a 
younger  sister ;  yes,  dearer  than  sisters  of  the  same  blood ;  for 
you  and  I  were  so  lonely,  Hilda,  that  the  whole  world  pressed 
us  together  by  its  solitude  and  strangeness.  Then,  will  you 
not  touch  my  hand?  Am  I  not  the  same  as  yesterday? " 

"Alas!  no,  Miriam!"  said  Hilda. 

"  Yes,  the  same, — the  same  for  you,  Hilda,"  rejoined  her 
lost  friend.  "  Were  you  to  touch  my  hand,  you  would  find  it 
as  warm  to  your  grasp  as  ever.  If  you  were  sick  or  suffering, 
I  would  watch  night  and  day  for  you.  It  is  in  such  simple 
offices  that  true  affection  shows  itself;  and  so  I  speak  of  them. 
Yet,  now,  Hilda,  your  very  look  seems  to  put  me  beyond  the 
limits  of  human  kind  !  " 

"  It  is  not  I,  Miriam, "  said  Hilda ;  "  not  I  that  have  done 
this." 


168  WTBRATURE  OF  At,!*  NATIONS. 

"You,  and  you  only,  Hilda,"  replied  Miriam,  stirred  up 
to  make  her  own  cause  good  by  the  repellent  force  which  her 
friend  opposed  to  her.  "  I  am  a  woman,  as  I  was  yesterday ; 
endowed  with  the  same  truth  of  nature,  the  same  warmth  of 
heart,  the  same  genuine  and  earnest  love,  which  you  hava 
always  known  in  me.  In  any  regard  that  concerns  yourself, 
I  am  not  changed.  And  believe  me,  Hilda,  when  a  human 
being  has  chosen  a  friend  out  of  all  the  world,  it  is  only  some 
faithlessness  between  themselves,  rendering  true  intercourse 
impossible,  that  can  justify  either  friend  in  severing  the  bond. 
Have  I  deceived  you  ?  Then  cast  me  off!  Have  I  wronged  you 
personally?  Then  forgive  me,  if  you  can.  But,  have  I  sinned 
against  God  and  man,  and  deeply  sinned?  Then  be  more  my 
friend  than  ever,  for  I  need  you  more." 

"Do  not  bewilder  me  thus,  Miriam!"  exclaimed  Hilda, 
who  had  not  forborne  to  express,  by  look  and  gesture,  the 
anguish  which  this  interview  inflicted  on  her.  "  If  I  were 
one  of  God's  angels,  with  a  nature  incapable  of  stain,  and  gar- 
ments that  never  could  be  spotted,  I  would  keep  ever  at  your 
side,  and  try  to  lead  you  upward.  But  I  am  a  poor,  lonely 
girl,  whom  God  has  set  here  in  an  evil  world,  and  given  her 
only  a  white  robe,  and  bid  her  wear  it  back  to  Him,  as  white 
as  when  she  put  it  on.  Your  powerful  magnetism  would  be 
too  much  for  me.  The  pure,  white  atmosphere,  in  which  I 
try  to  discern  what  things  are  good  and  true,  would  be  dis- 
colored. And,  therefore,  Miriam,  before  it  is  too  late,  I  mean 
to  put  faith  in  this  awful  heart-quake,  which  warns  me  hence- 
forth to  avoid  you." 

"Ah,  this  is  hard!  Ah,  this  is  terrible!"  murmured  Mi- 
riam, dropping  her  forehead  in  her  hands.  .  In  a  moment  or 
two  she  looked  up  again,  as  pale  as  death,  but  with  a  com. 
posed  countenance:  "I  always  said,  Hilda,  that  you  were 
merciless ;  for  I  had  a  perception  of  it,  even  while  you  loved 
me  best.  You  have  no  sin,  nor  any  conception  of  what  it  is ; 
and  therefore  you  are  so  terribly  severe!  As  an  angel,  you  are 
not  amiss ;  but,  as  a  human  creature,  and  a  woman  among 
earthly  men  and  women,  you  need  a  sin  to  soften  you.*' 

"God  forgive  me,"  said  Hilda,  "if  I  have  said  a  need, 
lessly  cruel  word ! " 


AMERICAN  UTERATUXB.  169 

"Let  it  pass,"  answered  Miriam;  "I,  whose  heart  it  has 
smitten  upon,  forgive  you.  And  tell  me,  before  we  part  for- 
ever, what  have  you  seen  or  known  of  me,  since  we  last  met  ?  " 

"A  terrible  thing,  Miriam, "  said  Hilda,  growing  paler 
than  before. 

"  Do  you  see  it  written  in  my  face,  or  painted  in  my 
eyes  ? '  *  inquired  Miriam,  her  trouble  seeking  relief  in  a  half- 
frenzied  raillery.  "  I  would  fain  know  how  it  is  that  Provi- 
dence, or  fate,  brings  eye-witnesses  to  watch  us,  when  we 
fancy  ourselves  acting  in  the  remotest  privacy.  Did  all  Rome 
see  it,  then  ?  Or,  at  least,  our  merry  company  of  artists  ?  Or 
is  it  some  blood- stain  on  me,  or  death-scent  in  my  garments? 
They  say  that  monstrous  deformities  sprout  out  of  fiends,  who 
once  were  lovely  angels.  Do  you  perceive  such  in  me  already  ? 
Tell  me,  by  our  past  friendship,  Hilda,  all  you  know." 

Thus  adjured,  and  frightened  by  the  wild  emotion  which 
Miriam  could  not  suppress,  Hilda  strove  to  tell  what  she  had 
witnessed. 

"  After  the  rest  of  the  party  had  passed  on,  I  went  back  to 
speak  to  you,"  she  said;  "  for  there  seemed  to  be  a  trouble  on 
your  mind,  and  I  wished  to  share  it  with  you,  if  you  could 
permit  me.  The  door  of  the  little  court-yard  was  partly  shut ; 
but  I  pushed  it  open,  and  saw  you  within,  and  Donatello,  and 
a  third  person,  whom  I  had  before  noticed  in  the  shadow  of  a 
niche.  He  approached  you,  Miriam.  You  knelt  to  him ! — I 
saw  Donatello  spring  upon  him !  I  would  have  shrieked,  but 
my  throat  was  dry.  I  would  have  rushed  forward,  but  my  limbs 
seemed  rooted  to  the  earth.  It  was  like  a  flash  of  lightning. 
A  look  passed  from  your  eyes  to  Donatello's — a  look  n — 

"Yes,  Hilda,  yes!"  exclaimed  Miriam,  with  intense  eag- 
erness. "  Do  not  pause  now!  That  look?  " 

"It  revealed  all  your  heart,  Miriam,"  continued  Hilda, 
covering  her  eyes  as  if  to  shut  out  the  recollection ;  "a  look 
of  hatred,  triumph,  vengeance,  and,  as  it  were,  joy  at  some 
unhoped-for  relief." 

"  Ah!  Donatello  was  right,  then,"  murmured  Miriam,  who 
shook  throughout  all  her  frame.  "  My  eyes  bade  him  do  it! 
Go  on,  Hilda." 

"It  all  passed  so  quickly, — all  like  a  glare  of  lightning," 


1^0  WTERATURB  OP  AU,  NATIONS. 

said  Hilda,  "and  yet  it  seemed  to  me  that  Donatello  had 
paused,  while  one  might  draw  a  breath.  But  that  look ! — Ah, 
Miriam,  spare  me.  Need  I  tell  more? " 

"  No  more ;  there  needs  no  more,  Hilda,"  replied  Miriam, 
bowing  her  head,  as  if  listening  to  a  sentence  of  condemna- 
tion from  a  supreme  tribunal.  "It  is  enough!  You  have  sat- 
isfied my  mind  on  a  point  where  it  was  greatly  disturbed. 
Henceforward,  I  shall  be  quiet.  Thank  you,  Hilda. " 

She  was  on  the  point  of  departing,  but  turned  back  again 
from  the  threshold. 

"This  is  a  terrible  secret  to  be  kept  in  a  young  girl's 
bosom/'  she  observed ;  "  what  will  you  do  with  it,  my  poor 
child?" 

"  Heaven  help  and  guide  me,"  answered  Hilda,  bursting 
into  tears;  "  for  the  burden  of  it  crushes  me  to  the  earth!  It 
seems  a  crime  to  know  of  such  a  thing,  and  to  keep  it  to  my- 
self. It  knocks  within  my  heart  continually,  threatening, 
imploring,  insisting  to  be  let  out!  Oh,  my  mother! — my 
mother !  Were  she  yet  living,  I  would  travel  over  land  and 
sea  to  tell  her  this  dark  secret,  as  I  told  all  the  little  troubles 
of  my  infancy.  But  I  am  alone — alone !  Miriam,  you  were 
my  dearest,  only  friend.  Advise  me  what  to  do." 

This  was  a  singular  appeal,  no  doubt,  from  the  stainless 
maiden  to  the  guilty  woman,  whom  she  had  just  banished 
from  her  heart  forever.  But  it  bore  striking  testimony  to  the 
impression  which  Miriam's  natural  uprightness  and  impulsive 
generosity  had  made  on  the  friend  who  knew  her  best ;  and 
it  deeply  comforted  the  poor  criminal,  by  proving  to  her  that 
the  bond  between  Hilda  and  herself  was  vital  yet. 

As  far  as  she  was  able,  Miriam  at  once  responded  to  the 
girl's  cry  for  help. 

"  If  I  deemed  it  good  for  your  peace  of  mind,"  she  said,  "  to 
bear  testimony  against  me  for  this  deed,  in  the  face  of  all  the 
world,  no  consideration  of  myself  should  weigh  with  me  an 
instant.  But  I  believe  that  you  would  find  no  relief  in  such 
a  course.  What  men  call  justice  lies  chiefly  in  outward  for- 
malities, and  has  never  the  close  application  and  fitness  that 
would  be  satisfactory  to  a  soul  like  yours.  I  cannot  be  fairly 
tried  and  judged  before  an  earthly  tribunal ;  and  of  this, 


AMERICAN   LITERATURE.  171 

Hilda,  you  would  perhaps  become  fatally  conscious  when  it 
was  too  late.  Roman  justice,  above  all  things,  is  a  byword. 
What  have  you  to  do  with  it  ?  I^eave  all  such  thoughts  aside ! 
Yet,  Hilda,  I  would  not  have  you  keep  my  secret  imprisoned 
in  your  heart  if  it  tries  to  leap  out,  and  stings  you,  like  a 
wild,  venomous  thing,  when  you  thrust  it  back  again.  Have 
you  no  other  friend,  now  that  you  have  been  forced  to  give 
me  up  ? ' ' 

"No  other/'  answered  Hilda,  sadly. 

<(  Yes ;  Kenyon ! "  rejoined  Miriam. 

"He  cannot  be  my  friend,"  said  Hilda,  "because — be- 
cause— I  have  fancied  that  he  sought  to  be  something  more." 

4  ( Fear  nothing ! "  replied  Miriam,  shaking  her  head,  with 
a  strange  smile.  "  This  story  will  frighten  his  new-born  love 
out  of  its  little  life,  if  that  be  what  you  wish.  Tell  him  the 
secret,  then,  and  take  his  wise  and  honorable  counsel  as  to 
what  should  next  be  done.  I  know  not  what  else  to  say." 

"I  never  dream ed,"  said  Hilda, — "how  could  you  think 
it? — of  betraying  you  to  justice.  But  I  see  how  it  is,  Miriam. 
I  must  keep  your  secret,  and  die  of  it,  unless  God  sends  me 
some  relief  by  methods  which  are  now  beyond  my  power  to 
imagine.  It  is  very  dreadful.  Ah  !  now  I  understand  how 
the  sins  of  generations  past  have  created  an  atmosphere  of  sin 
for  those  that  follow.  While  there  is  a  single  guilty  person 
in  the  universe,  each  innocent  one  must  feel  his  innocence 
tortured  by  that  guilt.  Your  deed,  Miriam,  has  darkened  the 
whole  sky ! " 


[The  selections  from  Nathaniel  Hawthorne's  works  are  used  by 
special  permission  of,  and  by  special  arrangement  with  the  authorized 
publishers,  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.] 


1 7*  UTERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 


HERMAN  MELVILLE. 

IN  spite  of  a  wide  popularity  in  his .  time  as  a  writer  of 
travels  and  of  sea-stories,  Herman  Melville  is  but  little  read 
to-day.  He  was  born  in  New  York  in  1819.  At  trie  age  of 
eighteen  he  shipped  before  the  mast  and  cruised  about,  visit- 
ing many  strange  lands,  until  the  year  1844,  when  he  re- 
turned to  Boston.  He  had  lived  for  a  time  among  cannibals 
in  one  of  the  Marquesas  Islands,  and  embodied  his  remark- 
able experiences  in  his  first  book,  uTypee,"  published  in 
1846.  The  book  had  an  immediate  success,  and  in  the  next 
year  he  issued  a  sequel,  entitled  "Omoo."  Among  other 
works  published  later  are  "  White  Jacket, "  "  Moby  Dick," 
"Redburn,"  and  two  volumes  of  poems  entitled  "Battle 
Pieces."  For  many  years  Melville  held  a  position  in  the  cus- 
tom-house at  New  York.  He  died  in  1891.  He  possessed  a 
dashing,  racy  style,  and  understood  well  how  to  relate  the  ro- 
mance of  adventure. 

BEMBO  RESCUED  FROM  THE  CREW. 

(From  "Omoo.") 

THE  purpose  of  Bembo  had  been  made  known  to  the  men 
generally  by  the  watch ;  and  now  that  our  salvation  was  cer- 
tain, by  an  instinctive  impulse  they  raised  a  cry,  and  rushed 
toward  him. 

Just  before  liberated  by  Dunk  and  the  steward,  he  was 
standing  doggedly  by  the  mizzen-mast ;  and,  as  the  infuriated 
sailors  came  on,  his  blood-shot  eye  rolled,  and  his  sheath- 
knife  glittered  over  his  head. 

"  Down  with  him  ! "  " Strike  him  down  ! "  "  Hang  him 
at  the  main-yard  ! ' '  such  were  the  shouts  now  raised.  But  he 
stood  unmoved,  and,  for  a  single  instant,  they  absolutely  fal- 
tered. 

"  Cowards  !  "  cried  Salem,  and  he  flung  himself  upon  him. 
The  steel  descended  like  a  ray  of  light,  but  did  no  harm,  for 
the  sailor's  heart  was  beating  against  the  Mowree's  before  he 
was  aware. 


AMERICAN   LITERATURE.  173 

They  both  fell  to  the  deck,  when  the  knife  was  instantly 
seized,  and  Bembo  secured. 

"  For'ard  !  for'ard  with  him  I"  was  again  the  cry;  "give 
him  a  sea-toss  !"  "overboard  with  him!"  and  he  was  dragged 
along  the  deck,  struggling  and  fighting  with  tooth  and  nail. 

All  this  uproar  immediately  over  the  mate's  head  at  last 
roused  him  from  his  drunken  nap,  and  he  came  staggering  on 
deck. 

"What's  this?"  he  shouted,  running  right  in  among  them. 

"It's  the  Mowree,  zur;  they  are  going  to  murder  him, 
zur,"  here  sobbed  poor  Rope  Yarn,  crawling  close  up  to  him. 

"  Avast !  avast ! n  roared  Jermin,  making  a  spring  toward 
Bembo,  and  dashing  two  or  three  of  the  sailors  aside.  At 
this  moment  the  wretch  was  partly  flung  over  the  bulwarks, 
which  shook  with  his  frantic  struggles.  In  vain  the  doctor 
and  others  tried  to  save  him:  the  men  listened  to  nothing. 

u  Murder  and  mutiny,  by  the  salt  sea  !"  shouted  the  mate; 
and  dashing  his  arms  right  and  left,  he  planted  his  iron  hand 
upon  the  Mowree' s  shoulder. 

"  There  are  two  of  us  now ;  and  as  you  serve  him,  you 
serve  me,"  he  cried,  turning  fiercely  round. 

"  Over  with  them  together,  then,"  exclaimed  the  carpenter, 
springing  forward  ;  but  the  rest  fell  back  before  the  coura- 
geous front  of  Jermin,  and,  with  the  speed  of  thought,  Bembo, 
unharmed,  stood  upon  deck. 

"  Aft  with  ye  !  "  cried  his  deliverer ;  and  he  pushed  him 
right  among  the  men,  taking  care  to  follow  him  up  close. 
Giving  the  sailors  no  time  to  recover,  he  pushed  the  Mowree 
before  him,  till  they  came  to  the  cabin  scuttle,  when  he  drew 
the  slide  over  him,  and  stood  still.  Throughout,  Bembo 
never  spoke  one  word. 

( l  Now  for'ard  where  ye  belong  ! ' '  cried  the  mate,  address- 
ing the  seamen,  who  by  this  time,  rallying  again,  had  no 
idea  of  losing  their  victim. 

"The  Mowree  !  the  Mowree  !"  they  shouted. 

Here  the  doctor,  in  answer  to  the  mate's  repeated  ques- 
tions, stepped  forward,  and  related  what  Bembo  had  been 
doing  ;  a  matter  which  the  mate  but  dimly  understood  from 
the  violent  threatenings  he  had  been  hearing. 


174  LITERATURE  OF  AIA  NATIONS. 

For  a  moment  he  seemed  to  waver ;  but  at  last,  turning 
the  key  in  the  padlock  of  the  slide,  he  breathed  through  his 
set  teeth — u  Ye  can't  have  him  ;  I'll  hand  him  over  to  the 
consul,  so  for'ard  with  ye,  I  say :  when  there's  any  drowning 
to  be  done,  I'll  pass  the  word ;  so  away  with  ye,  ye  blood- 
thirsty pirates ! ' ' 

It  was  to  no  purpose  that  they  begged  or  threatened :  Jer- 
min,  although  by  no  means  sober,  stood  his  ground  manfully, 
and  before  long  they  dispersed,  soon  to  forget  everything  that 
had  happened. 

JOHN  PENDLETON  KENNEDY. 

JOHN  PENDLETON  KENNEDY  was  chiefly  concerned  in 
politics  and  matters  of  state,  yet  a  vigorous  essayist,  a  fluent 
and  forceful  writer,  and  an  accurate  portrayer  of  life  in  the 
Old  Dominion.  He  was  born  in  Baltimore  in  1795,  and  was 
admitted  to  the  bar  in  1816.  He  served  as  Representative  in 
Congress  for  several  terms  and  was  one  of  the  recognized 
leaders  of  the  Whig  party.  His  "  Swallow  Barn,"  published 
in  1832,  consisted  of  pleasant  sketches  of  rural  life  in  Vir- 
ginia. Three  years  later  appeared  his  best  known  book, 
"Horse-Shoe  Robinson,"  a  tale  of  the  Revolutionary  War  in 
the  South.  In  1852  Kennedy  was  appointed  Secretary  of  the 
Navy.  When  he  retired  from  politics  in  1855  he  made  several 
visits  to  Europe,  where  he  became  intimate  with  Thackeray 
and  wrote  for  him  a  chapter  of  u  The  Virginians."  He  died 
in  1870.  Among  his  works,  besides  those  mentioned,  are 
"  Annals  of  Quodlibet,"  "Rob  of  the  Bowl,"  and  " Memoirs 
of  William  Wirt." 

A  BOY  SOLDIER. 

(From  "Horse-Shoe  Robinson.") 

HoRSE-SnoE  loaded  the  fire-arms,  and  having  slung  the 
pouch  across  his  body,  he  put  the  pistol  into  the  hands  of 
the  boy ;  then  shouldering  his  rifle,  he  and  his  young  ally 
left  the  room.  Even  on  this  occasion,  serious  as  it  might  be 
deemed,  the  sergeant  did  not  depart  without  giving  some 
manifestation  of  that  light-heartedness  which  no  difficulties 
ever  seemed  to  have  power  to  conquer.  He  thrust  his 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  175 

head  back  into  the  room,  after  he  had  crossed  the  thresh- 
old, and  said  with  an  encouraging  laugh,  "  Andy  and  me  will 
teach  them,  Mistress  Ramsay,  Pat's  point  of  war — we  will 
surround  the  ragamuffins. " 

"N6w,  Andy,  my  lad,"  said  Horse  Shoe,  after  he  had 
mounted  Captain  Peter,  "you  must  get  up  behind  me.  Turn 
the  lock  of  your  pistol  down,''  he  continued,  as  the  boy 
sprang  upon  the  horse's  rump,  uand  cover  it  with  the  flap  of 
your  jacket,  to  keep  the  rain  off.  It  won't  do  to  hang  fire  at 
such  a  time  as  this." 

The  lad  did  as  he  was  directed,  and  Horse  Shoe,  having 
secured  his  rifle  in  the  same  way,  put  his  horse  up  to  a  gallop 
and  took  the  road  in  the  direction  that  had  been  pursued  by 
the  soldiers. 

As  soon  as  our  adventurers  had  gained  a  wood,  at  a  dis- 
tance of  about  half  a  mile,  the  sergeant  relaxed  his  speed  and 
advanced  at  a  pace  but  little  above  a  walk. 

"Andy,"  he  said,  "  we  have  got  rather  a  ticklish  sort  of  a 
job  before  us — so  I  must  give  you  your  lesson,  which  you 
will  understand  better  by  knowing  something  of  my  plan. 
As  soon  as  your  mother  told  me  that  these  thieving  villains 
had  left  her  house  about  fifteen  minutes  before  the  rain  came 
on,  and  that  they  had  gone  along  upon  this  road,  I  remembered 
the  old  field  up  here,  and  the  little  log  hut  in  the  middle  of 
it;  and  it  was  natural  to  suppose  that  they  had  just  got  about 
near  that  hut  when  this  rain  came  up, — and  then  it  was  the 
most  supposable  case  in  the  world,  that  they  would  naturally 
go  into  it  as  the  driest  place  they  could  find.  So  now  you  see 
it's  my  calculation  that  the  whole  batch  is  there  at  this  very 
point  of  time.  We  will  go  slowly  along  until  we  get  to  the 
other  end  of  this  wood,  in  sight  of  the  old  field — and  then, 
if  there  is  no  one  on  the  look-out,  we  will  open  our  first 
trench: — you  know  what  that  means,  Andy  ?  " 

"It  means,  I  s'pose,  that  we'll  go  right  smack  at  them," 
replied  Andy. 

"  Pretty  exactly,"  said  the  sergeant.  ",But  listen  to  me. 
Just  at  the  edge  of  the  woods  you  will  have  to  get  down,  and 
put  yourself  behind  a  tree.  I'll  ride  forward,  as  if  I  had  a 
whole  troop  at  my  heels, — and  if  I  catch  them,  as  I  expect, 


176  UTERATURE  OF  AM,  NATIONS. 

they  will  have  a  little  fire  kindled,  and,  as  likely  as  not, 
they'll  be  cooking  some  of  your  mother's  fowls. n 

"  Yes, — I  understand,"  said  the  boy,  eagerly. 

"  No,  you  don't,"  replied  Horse  Shoe  ;  "  but  you  will  when 
you  hear  what  I  am  going  to  say.  If  I  get  at  them  onawares, 
they'll  be  mighty  apt  to  think  they  are  surrounded,  and  will 
bellow,  like  fine  fellows,  for  quarter.  And  thereupon,  Andy, 
I'll  cry  out,  '  Stand  fast,*  as  if  I  was  speaking  to  my  own 
men;  and  when  you  hear  that  you  must  come  up  full  tilt, — 
because  it  will  be  a  signal  to  you  that  the  enemy  has  sur- 
rendered. Then  it  will  be  your  business  to  run  into  the 
house  and  bring  out  the  muskets  as  quick  as  a  rat  runs 
through  a  kitchen:  and  when  you  have  done  that, — why,  all's 
done.  But  if  you  should  hear  any  popping  of  firearms, — that 
is,  more  than  one  shot,  which  I  may  chance  to  let  off— do  you 
take  that  for  a  bad  sign,  and  get  away  as  fast  as  you  can  heel 
it.  You  comprehend?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  replied  the  lad,  "and  I'll  do  what  you  want, 
— and  more  too,  may  be,  Mr.  Robinson." 

"  Captain  Robinson,  remember,  Andy ;  you  must  call  me 
captain,  in  the  hearing  of  these  Scotchmen." 

"I'll  not  forget  that  neither,"  answered  Andrew. 

By  the  time  these  instructions  were  fully  impressed  upon 
the  boy,  our  adventurous  forlorn  hope,  as  it  may  fitly  be 
called,  had  arrived  at  the  place  which  Horse  Shoe  had  des- 
ignated for  the  commencement  of  active  operations.  They 
had  a  clear  view  of  the  old  field ;  and  it  afforded  them  a 
strong  assurance  that  the  enemy  was  exactly  where  they 
wished  him  to  be,  when  they  discovered  smoke  arising  from 
the  chimney  of  the  hovel.  Andrew  was  instantly  posted  be- 
hind a  tree,  and  Robinson  galloped  across  the  intervening 
space,  and,  in  a  few  seconds,  abruptly  reined  up  his  steed  in 
the  very  doorway  of  the  hut.  The  party  within  was  gathered 
around  a  fire  at  the  further  end  ;  and,  in  the  corner  opposite 
the  door,  were  four  muskets  thrown  together  against  the  wall. 
To  spring  from  his  saddle,  thrust  himself  one  pace  inside  of 
the  door,  and  to  level  his  rifle  at  the  group  beside  the  fire, 
was  a  movement  which  the  sergeant  executed  in  an  instant, 
^-shouting  at  the  same  time — 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  X77 

"  Surrender  to  Captain  Robinson  of  the  Free  Will  Vol- 
unteers, and  to  the  Continental  Congress, — or  you  are  all  dead 
men  !  Halt,"  he  vociferated  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  as  if 
speaking  to  a  corps  under  his  command;  "file  off,  cornet, 
right  and  left,  to  both  sides  of  the  house.  The  first  man  that 
budges  a  foot  from  that  there  fireplace,  shall  have  fifty  balls 
through  his  body." 

"To  arms  !n  cried  the  young  officer  who  commanded  the 
squad  inside  of  the  house.  "  L,eap  to  your  arms,  men  !  Why 
do  you  stand,  you  villains?"  he  added,  as  he  perceived  his 
men  hesitate  to  move  toward  the  corner  where  the  muskets 
were  piled. 

"I  don't  want  your  blood,  young  man,"  said  Robinson, 
coolly,  as  he  still  leveled  his  rifle  at  the  officer,  "  nor  that  of 
your  people :— but,  by  my  father's  son,  I'll  not  leave  one  of 
you  to  be  put  upon  a  muster-roll,  if  you  move  an  inch  !" 

Both  parties  now  stood  for  a  brief  space  eyeing  each  other, 
in  a  fearful  suspense,  during  which  there  was  an  expression 
of  mixed  doubt  and  anger  visible  on  the  countenances  of  the 
soldiers,  as  they  surveyed  the  broad  proportions,  and  met  the 
stern  glance  of  the  sergeant ;  whilst  the  delay,  also,  began  to 
raise  an  apprehension  in  the  mind  of  Robinson  that  his  strat- 
agem would  be  discovered. 

4 *  Upon  him,  at  the  risk  of  your  lives  !"  cried  the  officer: 
and,  on  the  instant,  one  of  the  soldiers  moved  rapidly  toward 
the  farther  wall;  upon  which  the  sergeant,  apprehending  the 
seizure  of  the  weapons,  sprang  forward  in  such  a  manner  as 
would  have  brought  his  body  immediately  before  them, — but 
a  decayed  plank  in  the  floor  caught  his  foot  and  he  fell  to  his 
knee.  It  was  a  lucky  accident, — for  the  discharge  of  a  pistol, 
by  the  officer,  planted  a  bullet  in  the  log  of  the  cabin,  which 
would  have  been  lodged  full  in  the  square  breast  of  the  gal- 
lant Horse  Shoe,  if  he  had  retained  his  perpendicular  posi- 
tion. His  footing,  however,  was  recovered  almost  as  soon  as 
it  was  lost,  and  the  next  moment  found  him  bravely  posted 
in  front  of  the  firearms,  with  his  own  weapon  thrust  almost 
into  the  face  of  the  foremost  assailant.  The  hurry,  confu- 
sion, and  peril  of  the  crisis  did  not  take  away  his  self-posses- 
sion ;  but  he  now  found  himself  unexpectedly  thrown  into  a 
ix — 12 


178  UTERATURE  OF  AIJ,  NATIONS. 

situation  of  infinite  difficulty,  where  all  the  chances  of  the 
fight  were  against  him. 

"Back,  men,  and  guard  the  door,"  he  cried  out,  as  if 
again  addressing  his  troop.  u  Sir,  I  will  not  be  answerable 
for  consequences,  if  my  troopers  once  come  into  this  house. 
If  you  hope  for  quarter,  give  up  on  the  spot." 

"His  men  have  retreated,"  cried  one  of  the  soldiers. 
"  Upon  him,  boys!"  and  instantly  two  or  three  pressed  upon 
the  sergeant,  who,  seizing  his  rifle  in  both  hands,  bore  them 
back  by  main  force,  until  he  had  thrown  them  prostrate  on 
the  floor.  He  then  leaped  toward  the  door  with  the  intention 
of  making  good  his  retreat. 

"Shall  I  let  loose  upon  them,  captain?"  said  Andrew 
Ramsay,  now  appearing  most  unexpectedly  to  Robinson,  at 
the  door  of  the  hut.  "  Come  on,  my  brave  boys!"  he  shouted 
as  he  turned  his  face  toward  the  field. 

"Keep  them  outside  the  door — stand  fast,"  cried  the 
doughty  sergeant  again,  with  admirable  promptitude,  in  the 
new  and  sudden  posture  of  his  affairs  caused  by  this  oppor- 
tune appearance  of  the  boy.  "  Sir,  you  see  that  you  are 
beaten:  let  me  warn  you  once  more  to  save  the  lives  of  your 
men — it's  onpossible  for  me  to  keep  my  people  off  a  minute 
longer.  What  signifies  fighting  five  to  one?" 

During  this  appeal  the  sergeant  was  ably  seconded  by  the 
lad  outside,  who  was  calling  out  first  on  one  name  and  then 
on  another,  as  if  in  the  presence  of  a  troop.  The  device 
succeeded,  and  the  officer  within  at  length  said — 

"  Ivower  your  rifle,  sir.  In  the  presence  of  a  superior 
force,  taken  by  surprise  and  without  arms,  it  is  my  duty  to 
save  bloodshed.  With  the  promise  of  fair  usage  and  the 
rights  of  prisoners  of  war,  I  surrender  this  little  foraging 
party  under  my  command." 

"I'll  make  the  terms  agreeable,"  replied  the  sergeant. 
"Never  doubt  me,  sir.  "Right  hand  file,  advance,  and  re- 
ceive the  arms  of  the  prisoners  !" 

"Pm  here,  captain,"  said  Andrew,  in  a  conceited  tone,  as 
if  it  were  a  mere  occasion  of  merriment ;  and  the  lad  quickly 
entered  the  house  and  secured  the  weapons,  retreating  with 
them  some  paces  from  the  door. 


AMERICAN   LITERATURE.  179 

"Now,  sir,"  said  Horse  Shoe,  to  the  ensign,  "your  sword, 
and  whatever  else  you  might  have  about  you  of  the  muni- 
tions of  war !" 

The  officer  delivered  up  his  sword  and  pocket  pistols. 

14  Your  name? — if  I  mought  take  the  freedom." 

"  Ensign  St.  Jermyn,  of  his  Majesty's  seventy-first  regi- 
ment of  light  infantry." 

"  Ensign,  your  sarvant,"  added  Horse  Shoe,  aiming  at  an 
unusual  exhibition  of  politeness,  "  you  have  defended  your 
post  like  an  old  sodger,  although  you  ha' n't  much  beard  upon 
your  chin  ;  I'll  certify  for  you.  But,  seeing  you  have  given 
up,  you  shall  be  treated  like  a  man  who  has  done  his  duty. 
You  will  walk  out  now,  and  form  yourselves  in  line  at  the 
door.  I'll  engage  my  men  shall  do  you  no  harm: — they  are 
of  a  merciful  breed." 

When  the  little  squad  of  prisoners  submitted  to  this  com- 
mand, and  came  to  the  door,  they  were  stricken  with  the  most 
profound  astonishment  to  find,  in  place  of  the  detachment  of 
cavalry  they  expected  to  see,  nothing  but  one  horse,  one  man, 
and  one  boy.  Their  first  emotions  were  expressed  in  curses, 
which  were  even  succeeded  by  laughter  from  one  or  two  of 
the  number.  There  seemed  to  be  a  disposition,  on  the  part 
of  some,  to  resist  the  authority  that  now  controlled  them ; 
and  sundry  glances  were  exchanged  which  indicated  a  pur- 
pose to  turn  upon  their  captors.  The  sergeant  no  sooner 
perceived  this  than  he  halted,  raised  his  rifle  to  his  breast, 
and,  at  the  same  instant,  gave  Andrew  Ramsay  an  order  to 
retire  a  few  paces,  and  to  fire  one  of  the  captured  pieces  at 
the  first  man  who  opened  his  lips. 

u  By  my  hand,"  he  said,  "  if  I  find  any  trouble  in  taking 
you,  all  five,  safe  away  from  this  here  house,  I  will  thin  your 
numbers  with  your  own  muskets !  And  that's  as  good  as  if  I 
had  sworn  to  it." 

"  You  have  my  word,  sir,"  said  the  ensign.  "  I^ead  on — 
we'll  follow." 

"  By  your  leave,  my  pretty  gentlemen,  you  will  lead,  and 
I'll  follow,"  replied  Horse  Shoe.  "It  may  be  a  new  piece  of 
drill  to  you — but  the  custom  is  to  give  the  prisoners  the  post 
of  honor,  and  to  walk  them  in  front." 


l8o  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 


WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS. 

EXCEPTING  Cooper,  no  American  author  of  his  period 
was  more  voluminous  and  popular  than  William  Gilmore 
Simms.  Yet  his  novels  are  now  regarded  rather  as  literary 
curiosities  than  as  of  lasting  value.  He  was  born  at  Charles- 
ton, S.  C.,  April  17,  1806,  and  made  his  literary  debut  in 
1827  with  a  volume  of  poems.  In  the  following  year  he 
became  editor  of  a  newspaper,  but  continued  to  write  verse, 
of  which  he  soon  published  two  volumes.  In  1833,  on  the 
failure  of  his  paper,  he  issued  still  another  volume  of  verse 
and  his  first  romance — "Martin  Faber."  An  abler  story, 
u Guy  Rivers,'' soon  followed,  and  in  1835  appeared  uThe 
Yemassee,"  an  Indian  story,  which  is  generally  regarded  as 
his  best  book.  This  was  followed  by  many  romances  in 
rapid  succession ;  they  were  evidently  modeled  upon  those  of 
Scott  and  Cooper,  but  the  scenes  and  characters  were  all  from 
Simms' s  native  state.  All  displayed  a  pleasing  combination 
of  realism  and  imagination,  and  their  descriptions  and  combi- 
nations of  all  classes  of  South  Carolinians  of  a  former  period 
were  accepted  as  historically  true.  Most  of  Simms' s  pages 
are  spirited,  few  are  sentimental,  and  all  evince  the  vigor  and 
heartiness  for  which  their  author  was  noted.  He  edited 
several  magazines  and  reviews,  in  which  he  labored  earnestly 
to  promote  the  growth  of  Southern  literature  and  to  defend 
the  institutions  of  the  South.  Simms  wrote  also  several 
biographical  and  historical  works,  all  with  Southern  subjects. 
His  romances  were  collected  in  a  uniform  edition  of  seventeen 
volumes,  and  in  1867  he  compiled  a  large  volume  entitled, 
"The  War  Poetry  of  the  South."  He  died  at  Charleston, 
June  11,  1870. 

THE  MAIDEN  AND  THE  RATTLESNAKE. 

(Bess  Matthews,  the  heroine  of  "The  Yemassee,"  had  gone  into  the 
woods  to  await  the  coming  of  her  lover.) 

BEFORE  the  maiden  rose  a  little  clump  of  bushes — bright 
tangled  leaves  flaunting  wide  in  the  glossiest  green,  with 
vines  trailing  over  them,  thickly  decked  with  blue  and  crim- 


AMERICAN  WTERATURE.  l8l 

son  flowers.  Her  eyes  communed  vacantly  with  these ;  fas- 
tened by  a  star-like  shining  glance,  a  subtle  ray  that  shot  out 
from  the  circle  of  green  leaves,  seeming  to  be  their  very  eye, 
and  sending  out  a  fluid  lustre  that  seemed  to  stream  across  the 
space  between,  and  find  its  way  into  her  own  eyes.  Very 
piercing  was  that  beautiful  and  subtle  brightness,— of  the 
sweetest,  strangest  power.  And  now  the  leaves  quivered,  and 
seemed  to  float  away  only  to  return  ;  and  the  vines  waved  and 
swung  around  in  fantastic  mazes,  unfolding  ever- changing 
varieties  of  form  and  color  to  her  gaze ;  but  the  one  star-like 
eye  was  ever  steadfast,  bright,  and  gorgeous,  gleaming  in 
their  midst,  and  still  fastened  with  strange  fondness  upon  her 
own.  How  beautiful,  with  wondrous  intensity,  did  it  gleam 
and  dilate,  growing  larger  and  more  lustrous  with  every  ray 
which  it  sent  forth  ! 

And  her  own  glance  became  intense  ;  fixed  also,  but  with 
a  dreaming  sense  that  conjured  up  the  wildest  fancies,  terri- 
bly beautiful,  that  took  her  soul  away  from  her,  and  wrapped 
it  about  as  with  a  spell.  She  would  have  fled,  she  would 
have  flown  ;  but  she  had  not  power  to  move.  The  will  was 
wanting  to  her  flight.  She  felt  that  she  could  have  bent  for- 
ward to  pluck  the  gem-like  thing  from  the  bosom  of  the  leaf 
in  which  it  seemed  to  grow,  and  which  it  irradiated  with  its 
bright  gleam,  but  even  as  she  aimed  to  stretch  forth  her 
hand  and  bend  forward,  she  heard  a  rush  of  wings  and  a 
shrill  scream  from  the  tree  above  her — such  a  scream  as  the 
mocking-bird  makes,  when  angrily  it  raises  its  dusky  crest 
and  flaps  its  wings  furiously  against  its  slender  sides.  Such 
a  scream  seemed  like  a  warning,  and  though  yet  unawakened 
to  full  consciousness,  it  startled  her,  and  forbade  her  effort. 

More  than  once,  in  her  survey  of  this  strange  object,  had 
she  heard  that  shrill  note,  and  still  had  it  carried  to  her  ear 
the  same  note  of  warning,  and  to  her  mind  the  same  vague 
consciousness  of  an  evil  presence.  But  the  star-like  eye  was 
yet  upon  her  own :  a  small,  bright  eye,  quick,  like  that  of  a 
bird  ;  now  steady  in  its  place  and  observant  seemingly  of  hers, 
now  darting  forward  with  all  the  clustering  leaves  about  it, 
and  shooting  up  towards  her,  as  if  wooing  her  to  seize.  At 
another  moment,  invited  to  the  vine  which  lay  around  it,  it 


1 82  WTERATURE  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

would  whirl  round  and  round,  dazzlingly  bright  and  beauti- 
ful, even  as  a  torch  waving  hurriedly  by  night  in  the  hands 
of  some  playful  boy.  But  in  all  this  time  the  glance  was 
never  taken  from  her  own  ;  there  it  grew  fixed — a  very  prin- 
ciple of  light — and  such  a  light — a  subtle,  burning,  piercing, 
fascinating  gleam,  such  as  gathers  in  vapor  above  the  old 
grave,  and  binds  us  as  we  look — shooting,  darting,  directly 
into  her  eyes,  dazzling  her  gaze,  defeating  its  sense  of  dis- 
crimination, and  confusing  strangely  that  of  perception.  She 
felt  dizzy;  for,  as  she  looked,  a  cloud  of  colors,  bright,  gay, 
various  colors,  floated  and  hung,  like  so  much  drapery,  around 
the  single  object  that  had  so  secured  her  attention  and  spell- 
bound her  feet.  Her  limbs  felt  momently  more  and  more 
insecure ;  her  blood  grew  cold,  and  she  seemed  to  feel  the 
gradual  freeze  of  vein  by  vein  throughout  her  person. 

At  that  moment  a  rustling  was  heard  in  the  branches  of 
the  tree  beside  her ;  and  the  bird,  which  had  repeatedly  ut- 
tered a  single  cry  above  her,  as  if  it  were  of  warning,  flew 
away  from  his  station  with  a  scream  more  piercing  than  ever. 
This  movement  had  the  effect,  for  which  it  really  seemed  in- 
tended, of  bringing  back  to  her  a  portion  of  the  consciousness 
she  seemed  so  totally  to  have  been  deprived  of  before.  She 
strove  to  move  from  before  the  beautiful  but  terrible  pres- 
ence, but  for  a  while  she  strove  in  vain.  The  rich,  star-like 
glance  still  riveted  her  own,  and  the  subtle  fascination  kept 
her  bound.  The  mental  energies,  however,  with  the  moment 
of  their  greatest  trial,  now  gathered  suddenly  to  her  aid,  and 
with  a  desperate  effort,  but  with  a  feeling  still  of  most  annoy- 
ing uncertainty  and  dread,  she  succeeded  partially  in  the 
attempt,  and  threw  her  arms  backwards,  her  hands  grasping 
the  neighboring  tree,  feeble,  tottering,  and  depending  upon  it 
for  that  support  which  her  own  limbs  almost  entirely  denied 
her. 

With  that  movement,  however,  came  the  full  development 
of  the  powerful  spell  and  dreadful  mystery  before  her.  As 
her  feet  receded,  though  but  for  a  single  pace,  to  the  tree 
against  which  she  now  rested,  the  audibly-articulated  ring — 
like  that  of  a  watch  when  wound  up,  but  with  the  verge 
broken — announced  the  nature  of  that  splendid  yet  dangerous 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  183 

presence,  in  the  form  of  the  monstrous  rattlesnake,  now  but 
a  few  feet  before  her,  lying  coiled  at  the  bottom  of  a  beautiful 
shrub,  with  which,  to  her  dreaming  eye,  many  of  its  own 
glorious  hues  had  become  associated.  She  was  at  length  con- 
scious enough  to  perceive  and  to  feel  all  her  danger  ;  but  ter- 
ror had  denied  her  the  strength  necessary  to  fly  from  her 
dreadful  enemy.  There  still  the  eye  glared  beautifully 
bright  and  piercing  upon  her  own  ;  and  seemingly  in  a  spirit 
of  sport,  the  insidious  reptile  slowly  unwound  itself  from  his 
coil,  but  only  to  gather  himself  up  again  into  his  muscular 
rings,  his  great  flat  head  rising  in  the  midst,  and  slowly  nod- 
ding, as  it  were,  towards  her,  the  eye  still  peering  deeply  into 
her  own,  the  rattle  still  slightly  ringing  at  intervals  and  giv- 
ing forth  that  paralyzing  sound  which,  once  heard,  is  remem- 
bered forever. 

The  reptile  all  this  while  appeared  to  be  conscious  of  and 
to  sport  with,  while  seeking  to  excite  her  terrors.  Now,  with 
its  flat  head,  distended  mouth,  and  curving  neck,  would  it  dart 
forward  its  long  form  towards  her ;  its  fatal  teeth,  unfolding 
on  either  side  of  its  upper  jaw,  seeming  to  threaten  her  with 
instantaneous  death  ;  while  its  powerful  eye  shot  forth  glances 
of  that  fatal  power  of  fascination,  malignantly  bright,  which, 
by  paralyzing  with  a  novel  form  of  terror  and  of  beauty,  may 
readily  account  for  the  spell  it  possesses  of  binding  the  feet  of 
the  timid,  and  denying  to  fear  even  the  privilege  of  flight. 
Could  she  have  fled?  She  felt  the  necessity;  but  the  power 
of  her  limbs  was  gone.  And  there  it  still  lay,  coiling  and  un- 
coiling, its  arched  neck  glittering  like  a  ring  of  brazed  cop- 
per, bright  and  lurid  ;  and  the  dreadful  beauty  of  its  eye  still 
fastened,  eagerly  contemplating  the  victim,  while  the  pendu- 
lous rattle  still  rang  the  death-note,  as  if  to  prepare  the  con- 
scious mind  for  the  fate  which  is  momently  approaching  to 
the  blow.  .  .  . 

The  terrified  damsel — her  full  consciousness  restored,  but 
not  her  strength — feels  all  her  danger.  She  sees  that  the 
sport  of  the  terrible  reptile  is  at  an  end.  She  cannot  now 
mistake  the  horrid  expression  of  its  eye.  She  strives  to 
scream,  but  the  voice  dies  away,  a  feeble  gurgling  in  her 
throat.  Her  tongue  is  paralyzed ;  her  lips  are  sealed  ;  once 


1 84  UTERATURE  OF  ALI,  NATIONS. 

more  she  strives  for  flight,  but  her  limbs  refuse  their  office. 
She  has  nothing  left  of  life  but  its  fearful  consciousness.  It 
is  in  her  despair  that — a  last  effort — she  succeeds  to  scream — 
a  single  wild  cry,  forced  from  her  by  the  accumulated  agony. 
She  sinks  down  upon  the  grass  before  her  enemy,  her  eyes, 
however,  still  open,  and  still  looking  upon  those  which  he 
directs  forever  upon  them.  She  sees  him  approach  ;  now  ad- 
vancing, now  receding ;  now  swelling  in  every  part  with 
something  like  anger,  while  his  neck  is  arched  beautifully, 
like  that  of  a  wild  horse  under  the  curb;  until  at  length, 
tired  as  it  were  of  play,  like  the  cat  with  its  victim,  she  sees 
the  neck  growing  larger,  and  becoming  completely  bronzed, 
as  about  to  strike — the  huge  jaws  unclosing  almost  directly 
above  her,  the  long  tubulated  fang,  charged  with  venom,  pro- 
truding from  the  cavernous  mouth — and  she  sees  no  more. 
Insensibility  came  to  her  aid,  and  she  lay  almost  lifeless  under 
the  very  folds  of  the  monster. 

In  that  moment  the  copse  parted,  and  an  arrow  piercing 
the  monster  through  and  through  the  neck,  bore  his  head  for- 
ward to  the  ground,  alongside  the  maiden;  while  his  spiral 
extremities,  now  unfolding  in  his  own  agony,  were  actually 
in  part  writhing  upon  her  person.  The  arrow  came  from  the 
fugitive  Occonestoga,  who  had  fortunately  reached  the  spot  in 
season  on  his  way  to  the  Block  House.  He  rushed  from  the 
copse  as  the  snake  fell,  and  with  a  stick  fearlessly  approached 
him  where  he  lay  tossing  in  agony  upon  the  grass. 

Seeing  him  advance,  the  courageous  reptile  made  an  effort 
to  regain  his  coil,  shaking  the  fearful  rattle  violently  at  every 
evolution  which  he  took  for  that  purpose ;  but  the  arrow,  com- 
pletely passing  through  his  neck,  opposed  an  unyielding  ob- 
stacle to  his  endeavor  ;  and  finding  it  hopeless,  and  seeing  the 
new  enemy  about  to  assault  him — with  something  of  the 
spirit  of  the  white  man  under  like  circumstances — he  turned 
desperately  round,  and  striking  his  charged  fangs,  so  that  they 
were  riveted  in  the  wound  they  made,  into  a  susceptible  part 
of  his  own  body,  he  threw  himself  over  with  a  single  convul- 
sion and  a  moment  after  lay  dead  beside  the  utterly  uncon- 
scious maiden. 


HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE. 

"  UNCLE  Tom's  Cabin,"  perhaps  the 
most  widely  known  American  novel,  owes 
its  celebrity  to  other  than  literary  causes.  It  was  a  powerful 
indictment  against  the  cherished,  deep-rooted  institution  of 
one-half  of  the  United  States  and  kindled  the  resentment 
of  the  North  against  the  South.  Its  author  was  born  in 
Litchfield,  Conn.,  June  14,  1812,  and  was  early  known  as  a  pre- 
cocious and  brilliant  child.  Her  father,  Rev.  Lyman  Beecher, 
was  a  prominent  minister,  and  his  entire  family  took  intelli- 
gent interest  in  his  studies  and  controversies.  At  the  age  of 
fourteen  years  Harriet  was  entrusted  with  school-room  classes, 
and  she  soon  afterward  began  to  write  sketches  for  publication. 
Dr.  Beecher  was  made  President  of  L,ane  Theological  Semi- 
nary at  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  in  1832.  Here  Harriet  met  Prof. 
Calvin  E.  Stowe,  to  whom  she  was  married  in  1836.  It  is  to 
her  residence  in  Cincinnati,  close  to  the  border  state  of  Ken- 
tucky, that  the  world  owes  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,"  for  in 
eighteen  years  she  became  familiar  with  African  slavery  and 
many  of  its  incidents.  Yet  the  book  itself  was  not  written 
until  1850,  when  its  author,  then  a  resident  of  Maine,  became 
indignant  at  the  apathy  of  many  Northern  people  regarding 
the  Fugitive  Slave  Law.  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin"  was  first 
published  serially  in  the  National  Era,  a  Washington  news- 
paper of  limited  circulation,  but  when  it  appeared  in  book 
form  it  at  once  became  popular.  Republished  in  England,  it 
attracted  more  attention,  and  soon  translations  of  it  were 
issued  in  almost  all  European  countries.  Although  it  was 
soundly  berated  in  the  Southern  States,  some  Southern  readers 
did  the  author  the  justice  to  admit  that  she  attacked  only 

185 


1 86  WTERATURE  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

slavery — not  the  owners  of  slaves,  and  that  the  meanest  char- 
acters in  the  story  were  men  of  Northern  birth. 

Six  years  after  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin "  had  made  her 
famous,  Mrs.  Stowe  published  "Dred,"  which  also  was  an 
attack  upon  slavery,  the  scene  being  laid  in  Virginia.  Before 
these  anti-slavery  novels  Mrs.  Stowe,  although  then  in  her 
forty-fifth  year,  had  issued  no  other  volume  but  "  The  May- 
flower," a  collection  of  sketches  of  descendants  of  the  Pilgrim 
Fathers.  In  1859  appeared  her  first  New  England  romance, 
"The  Minister's  Wooing,"  a  tale  of  the  last  century.  L,owell, 
at  that  time  editor  of  the  North  American  Review,  commended 
the  book  highly  and  wrote  of  the  author,  "We  do  not  believe 
that  there  is  any  one  who,  by  birth,  breeding  and  natural 
capacity,  has  had  the  opportunity  to  know  New  England  so 
well  as  she,  or  has  the  peculiar  genius  so  to  profit  by  the 
knowledge. ' '  The  author,  who  had  gone  to  Europe  in  1 860, 
displayed  her  versatility  by  publishing  "Agnes  of  Sorrento," 
an  Italian  romance,  presenting  word-pictures  of  Savonarola 
that  were  not  equalled  in  literature  until  George  Eliot's 
"Romola"  appeared. 

In  later  years  Mrs.  Stowe  wrote  tales  of  New  England 
country  life  that  exhibit  genuine  humor  and  knowledge  of  the 
people  and  their  ways.  The  best  known  of  these  books  are 
"Old  Town  Folks,"  "Poganuc  People"  and  "  Sam  Lawson's 
Fireside  Stories."  Her  domestic  stories  were  written  with 
moral  purpose,  and  were  largely  read,  but  she  never  repeated 
the  success  of  her  first  great  book.  Mrs.  Stowe  died  in  1886. 

CROSSING  THE  OHIO  ON  ICE. 

(From  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin."  ) 

AN  hour  before  sunset,  Eliza  entered  the  village  of  T , 

by  the  Ohio  river,  weary  and  footsore,  but  still  strong  in 
heart.  Her  first  glance  was  at  the  river,  which  lay,  like 
Jordan,  between  her  and  the  Canaan  of  liberty  on  the  other 
side. 

It  was  now  early  spring,  and  the  river  was  swollen  and 
turbulent ;  great  cakes  of  floating  ice  were  swinging  heavily 
to  and  fro  in  the  turbid  waters.  Owing  to  the  peculiar  form 
of  the  shore  on  the  Kentucky  side,  the  land  bending  far  out 


AMERICAN  LITER ATURH.  187 

into  the  water,  the  ice  had  been  lodged  and  detained  in  great 
quantities,  and  the  narrow  channel  which  swept  round  the 
bend  was  full  of  ice,  piled  one  cake  over  another,  thus  form- 
ing a  temporary  barrier  to  the  descending  ice,  which  lodged, 
and  formed  a  great,  undulating  raft,  rilling  up  the  whole  river, 
and  extending  almost  to  the  Kentucky  shore. 

Eliza  stood,  for  a  moment,  contemplating  this  unfavorable 
aspect  of  things,  which  she  saw  at  once  must  prevent  the  usual 
ferry-boat  from  running,  and  then  turned  into  a  small  public 
house  on  the  bank,  to  make  a  few  inquiries. 

The  hostess,  who  was  busy  in  various  fizzing  and  stewing 
operations  over  the  fire,  preparatory  to  the  evening  meal, 
stopped,  with  a  fork  in  her  hand  as  Eliza's  sweet  and  plain- 
tive voice  arrested  her. 

"  What  is  it?  "she  said. 

"  Isn't  there  any  ferry  or  boat,  that  takes  people  over  to 
B ,  now?  "  she  said. 

"  No,  indeed  !  "  said  the  woman  ;  "  the  boat  has  stopped 
running." 

Eliza's  look  of  dismay  and  disappointment  struck  the 
woman,  and  she  said,  inquiringly, 

"  May  be  you're  wanting  to  get  over? — anybody  sick?  Ye 
seem  mighty  anxious?" 

"I've  got  a  child  that's  very  dangerous,"  said  Eliza.  "I 
never  heard  of  it  till  last  night,  and  I've  walked  quite  a  piece 
to-day,  in  hopes  to  get  to  the  ferry." 

"Well,  now,  that's  onlucky,"  said  the  woman  whose 
motherly  sympathies  were  much  aroused ;  I'm  re'lly  con- 
sarned  for  ye.  Solomon ! "  she  called,  from  the  window, 
towards  a  small  back  building.  A  man,  in  leather  apron  and 
very  dirty  hands,  appeared  at  the  door. 

"I  say,  Sol,"  said  the  woman,  "is  that  ar  man  going  to 
tote  them  bar'ls  over  to  night?  " 

"  He  said  he  should  try,  if  't  was  any  way  prudent,"  said 
the  man. 

"  There's  a  man  a  piece  down  here,  that's  going  over  with 
some  truck  this  evening,  if  he  durs'to;  he'll  be  in  here  to 
supper  to-night,  so  you'd  better  set  down  and  wait.  That's 
a  sweet  little  fellow,"  added  the  woman,  offering  him  a  cake. 


188  UTERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

But  the  child,  wholly  exhausted,  cried  with  weariness. 

"  Poor  fellow  !  he  isn't  used  to  walking,  and  I've  hurried 
him  on  so, ' '  said  Eliza. 

"  Well,  take  him  into  this  room,"  said  the  woman,  open- 
ing into  a  small  bed-room,  where  stood  a  comfortable  bed. 
Eliza  laid  the  weary  boy  upon  it,  and  held  his  hands  in  hers 
till  he  was  fast  asleep.  For  her  there  was  no  rest.  As  a  fire 
in  her  bones,  the  thought  of  the  pursuer  urged  her  on  ;  and 
she  gazed  with  longing  eyes  on  the  sullen,  surging  waters 
that  lay  between  her  and  liberty. 

In  consequence  of  all  the  various  delays,  it  was  about 
three-quarters  of  an  hour  after  Eliza  had  laid  her  child  to 
sleep  in  the  village  tavern  that  the  pursuing  party  came  rid- 
ing into  the  same  place.  Eliza  was  standing  by  the  window, 
looking  out  in  another  direction,  when  Sam's  quick  eye  caught 
a  glimpse  of  her.  Haley  and  Andy  were  two  yards  behind. 
At  this  crisis,  Sam  contrived  to  have  his  hat  blown  off,  and 
uttered  a  loud  and  characteristic  ejaculation,  which  startled 
her  at  once  ;  she  drew  suddenly  back ;  the  whole  train  swept 
by  the  window,  round  to  the  front  door. 

A  thousand  lives  seemed  to  be  concentrated  in  that  one 
moment  to  Eliza.  Her  room  opened  by  a  side  door  to  the 
river.  She  caught  her  child,  and  sprang  down  the  steps 
towards  it.  The  trader  caught  a  full  glimpse  of  her,  just  as 
she  was  disappearing  down  the  bank ;  and  throwing  himself 
from  his  horse,  and  calling  loudly  on  Sam  and  Andy,  he  was 
after  her  like  a  hound  after  a  deer.  In  that  dizzy  moment  her 
feet  to  her  scarce  seemed  to  touch  the  ground,  and  a  moment 
brought  her  to  the  water's  edge.  Right  on  behind  they  came  ; 
and,  nerved  with  strength  such  as  God  gives  only  to  the  des- 
perate, with  one  wild  cry  and  flying  leap,  she  vaulted  sheer 
over  the  turbid  current  by  the  shore,  on  to  the  raft  of  ice 
beyond.  It  was  a  desperate  leap — impossible  to  anything  but 
madness  and  despair ;  and  Haley,  Sam,  and  Andy,  instinct- 
ively cried  out,  and  lifted  up  their  hands,  as  she  did  it. 

The  huge  green  fragment  of  ice  on  which  she  alighted, 
pitched  and  creaked  as  her  weight  came  on  it,  but  she  stayed 
there  not  a  moment.  With  wild  cries  and  desperate  energy 
she  leaped  to  another  and  still  another  cake ; — stumbling — 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE. 


189 


leaping — slipping— springing  upwards  again  !  Her  shoes  are 
gone — her  stockings  cut  from  her  feet — while  blood  marked 
every  step ;  but  she  saw  nothing,  felt  nothing,  till  dimly,  as 
in  a  dream,  she  saw  the  Ohio  side,  and  a  man  helping  her  up 
the  bank. 


"  Yer  a  brave  gal,  now,  whoever  ye  ar!M  said  the  man, 
with  an  oath. 

Eliza  recognized  the  voice  and  face  of  a  man  who  owned 
a  farm  not  far  from  her  old  home. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Symmes ! — save  me — do  save  me — do  hide 
me!"  said  Eliza. 

"Why,  what's  this?"  said  the  man.  "Why,  if  tan't 
Shelby's  gal!" 


I  go  UTERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

"My  child!— this  boy !— he'd  sold  him!  There  is  his 
Mas'r,"  said  she,  pointing  to  the  Kentucky  shore.  "O  Mr. 
Symmes,  you've  got  a  little  boy  !  " 

"So  I  have,"  said  the  man,  as  he  roughly,  but  kindly 
drew  her  up  the  steep  bank.  u  Besides,  you're  a  right  brave 
gal.  I  like  grit,  wherever  I  see  it." 

When  they  had  gained  the  top  of  the  bank,  the  man  paused. 

"I'd  be  glad  to  do  something  for  ye,"  said  he ;  "  but  then 
there's  nowhar  I  could  take  ye.  The  best  I  can  do  is  to  tell 
ye  to  go  thar"  said  he,  pointing  to  a  large  white  house  which 
stood  by  itself,  off  the  main  street  of  the  village.  "  Go  thar ; 
they're  kind  folks.  Thar's  no  kind  o'  danger  but  they'll  help 
you, — they're  up  to  all  that  sort  o'  thing." 

"The  Lord  bless  you  ! "  said  Eliza,  earnestly. 

uNo  'casion,  no  'casion  in  the  world,"  said  the  man. 
"What  I've  done's  of  no  'count." 

"  And,  oh,  surely,  sir,  you  won't  tell  any  one ! " 

"  Go  to  thunder,  gal !  What  do  you  take  a  fellow  for?  In 
course  not,"  said  the  man.  "Come,  now,  go  along  like  a 
likely,  sensible  gal,  as  you  are.  You've  arnt  your  liberty, 
and  you  shall  have  it,  for  all  me." 

The  woman  folded  her  child  to  her  bosom  and  walked 
firmly  and  swiftly  away.  The  man  stood  and  looked  after  her. 

"  Shelby,  now,  inebbe  won't  think  this  yer  the  most  neigh- 
borly thing  in  the  world;  but  what's  a  feller  to  do?  If  he 
catches  one  of  my  gals  in  the  same  fix,  he's  welcome  to  pay 
back.  Somehow  I  never  could  see  no  kind  o'  critter  a  strivin' 
and  pantin',  and  trying  to  clar  theirselves,  with  the  dogs  arter 
'em,  and  go  agin'  'em.  Besides,  I  don't  see  no  kind  of  'casion 
for  me  to  be  hunter  and  catcher  for  other  folks,  neither." 

So  spoke  this  poor,  heathenish  Kentuckian,  who  had  not 
been  instructed  in  his  constitutional  relations,  and  conse- 
quently was  betrayed  into  acting  in  a  sort  of  Christianized 
manner,  which,  if  he  had  been  better  situated  and  more 
enlightened,  he  would  not  have  been  left  to  do. 

Haley  had  stood  a  perfectly  amazed  spectator  of  the  scene, 
till  Eliza  had  disappeared  up  the  bank,  when  he  turned  a 
blank,  inquiring  look  on  Sam  and  Andy. 

"That  ar  was  a  tolable  fair  stroke  of  business,"  said  Sam. 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  19 1 

•*  That  gal's  got  seven  devils  in  her,  I  believe ! "  said  Ha- 
ley. u  How  like  a  wildcat  she  jumped  !  " 

"Wai,  now,"  said  Sam,  scratching  his  head,  "I  hope 
Mas'r  '11  'scuse  us  tryin'  dat  ar  road.  Don't  think  I  feel  spry 
enough  for  dat  ar,  no  way  ! "  and  Sam  gave  a  hoarse  chuckle. 

"  You  laugh !  "  said  the  trader,  with  a  growl. 

u  Ix>rd  bless  you,  Mas'r,  I  couldn't  help  it,  now,"  said  Sam, 
giving  way  to  the  long  pent-up  delight  of  his  soul.  u  She 
looked  so  curi's,  a  leapin'  and  springin' — ice  a  crackin' — and 
only  to  hear  her, — plump  !  ker-chunk  !  ker-splash  !  Spring ! 
L^rd !  how  she  goes  it !  "  and  Sam  and  Andy  laughed  till  the 
tears  rolled  down  their  cheeks. 

"  I'll  make  ye  laugh  t'other  side  yer  mouths  I"  said  the 
trader,  laying  about  their  heads  with  his  riding-whip. 

Both  ducked,  and  ran  shouting  up  the  bank,  and  were  on 
their  horses  before  he  was  up. 

"  Good-evening,  Mas'r ! "  said  Sam,  with  much  gravity. 
"  I  berry  much  spect  Missis  be  anxious  'bout  Jerry.  Mas'r 
Haley  won't  want  us  no  longer.  Missis  wouldn't  hear  of  our 
ridin'  the  critters  over  L,izy's  bridge  to-night ; "  and,  with  a 
facetious  poke  into  Andy's  ribs,  he  started  off,  followed  by  the 
latter,  at  full  speed, — their  shouts  of  laughter  coming  faintly 
on  the  wind. 

EVA  AND  TOPSY. 
(From  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin.") 

Miss  OPHELIA  had  just  the  capability  of  indignation  that 
belongs  to  the  thorough-paced  housekeeper,  and  this  had 
been  pretty  actively  roused  by  the  artifice  and  wastefulness 
of  the  child ;  in  fact,  many  of  my  lady  readers  must  own 
that  they  should  have  felt  just  so  in  her  circumstances  ;  but 
Marie's  words  went  beyond  her,  and  she  felt  less  heat. 

"I  wouldn't  have  the  child  treated  so,  for  the  world,"  she 
said  ;  "but,  I  am  sure,  Augustine,  I  don't  know  what  to  do. 
I've  taught  and  taught;  I've  talked  till  I'm  tired;  I've 
whipped  her ;  I've  punished  her  in  every  way  I  can  think  of, 
and  still  she's  just  what  she  was  at  first." 

"  Come  here,  Tops',  you  monkey!"  said  St.  Clare,  calling 
the  child  up  to  him. 


IQ2  UTBRATURS  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

Topsy  came  up ;  her  round,  hard  eyes  glittering  and  blink- 
ing with  a  mixture  of  apprehensiveness  and  their  usual  odd 
drollery. 

"  What  makes  you  behave  so?"  said  St.  Clare,  who  could 
not  help  being  amused  with  the  child's  expression. 

uSpects  it's  my  wicked  heart,"  said  Topsy,  demurely; 
"  Miss  Feely  says  so," 

"Don't  you  see  how  much  Miss  Ophelia  has  done  for 
you  ?  She  says  she  has  done  everything  she  can  think  of." 

"I<or,  yes,  Mas'r!  old  Missis  used  to  say  so,  too.  She 
whipped  me  a  heap  harder,  and  used  to  pull  my  har,  and 
knock  my  head  agin  the  door;  but  it  didn't  do  me  no  good! 
I  spects,  if  they's  to  pull  every  spear  o'  har  out  o'  my  head, 
it  wouldn't  do  no  good,  neither, — I's  so  wicked!  I/aws!  I's 
nothin'  but  a  nigger,  noways!" 

"Well,  I  shall  have  to  give  her  up,"  said  Miss  Ophelia. 
"  I  can't  have  that  trouble  any  longer." 

"Well,  I  'd  just  like  to  ask  one  question,"  said  St.  Clare. 

" What  is  it?" 

u  Why,  if  your  Gospel  is  not  strong  enough  to  save  one 
heathen  child,  that  you  can  have  at  home  here,  all  to  your- 
self, what's  the  use  of  sending  one  or  two  poor  missionaries 
off  with  it  among  thousands  of  just  such  ?  I  suppose  this 
child  is  about  a  fair  sample  of  what  thousands  of  your 
heathen  are." 

Miss  Ophelia  did  not  make  an  immediate  answer;  and 
Eva,  who  had  stood  a  silent  spectator  of  the  scene  thus  far, 
made  a  silent  sign  to  Topsy  to  follow  her.  There  was  a  little 
glass  room  at  the  corner  of  the  veranda,  which  St.  Clare  used 
as  a  sort  of  reading-room;  and  Eva  and  Topsy  disappeared 
into  this  place. 

"What's  Eva  going  about,  now?"  said  St.  Clare;  "I 
mean  to  see." 

And,  advancing  on  tiptoe,  he  lifted  up  a  curtain  that 
covered  the  glass  door,  and  looked  in.  In  a  moment,  laying 
his  fingers  on  his  lips,  he  made  a  silent  gesture  to  Miss 
Ophelia  to  come  and  look.  There  sat  the  two  children  on 
the  floor,  with  their  side  faces  toward  them.  Topsy,  with 
her  usual  air  of  careless  drollery  and  unconcern;  but,  op- 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  193 

posite  to  her,  Eva,  her  whole  face  fervent  with  feeling,  and 
tears  in  her  large  eyes. 

u  What  does  make  you  so  bad,  Topsy  ?  Why  won't  you 
try  and  be  good  ?  Don't  you  love  any 'body -,  Topsy  ?" 

"Dunno  nothing 'bout  love;  I  loves  candy  and  sich, 
that's  all,"  said  Topsy. 

"But  you  love  your  father  and  mother." 

"  Never  had  none,  ye  know.    I  telled  ye  that,  Miss  Eva/* 

"Oh,  I  know,"  said  Eva,  sadly;  "  but,  had  n't  you  any 
brother,  or  sister,  or  aunt,  or ' ' — 

"No,  none  on  'em, — never  had  nothing  nor  nobody." 

"  But,  Topsy,  if  you  'd  only  try  to  be  good,  you  might " — 

"  Could  n't  never  be  nothin'  but  a  nigger,  if  I  was  ever  so 
good,"  said  Topsy.  "  If  I  could  be  skinned,  and  come  white, 
I'd  try  then." 

*  *  But  people  can  love  you,  if  you  are  black,  Topsy.  Miss 
Ophelia  would  love  you,  if  you  were  good." 

Topsy  gave  the  short,  blunt  laugh  that  was  her  common 
mode  of  expressing  incredulity. 

"Don't  you  think  so?"  said  Eva. 

"  No ;  she  can't  bar  me,  'cause  I'm  a  nigger! — she'd's 
soon  have  a  toad  touch  her !  There  can't  nobody  love  nig- 
gers, and  niggers  can't  do  nothin'!  /don't  care,"  said  Topsy, 
beginning  to  whistle. 

uOh,  Topsy,  poor  child.  /  love  you!"  said  Eva,  with  a 
sudden  burst  of  feeling,  and  laying  her  little  thin,  white 
hand  on  Topsy 's  shoulder ;  "I  love  you,  because  you  have 
not  had  any  father,  or  mother,  or  friends; — because  you  've 
been  a  poor,  abused  child!  I  love  you,  and  I  want  you  to  be 
good.  I  am  very  unwell,  Topsy,  and  I  think  I  shan't  live  a 
great  while;  and  it  really  grieves  me  to  have  you  be  so 
naughty.  I  wish  you  would  try  to  be  good  for  my  sake; — 
it's  only  a  little  while  I  shall  be  with  you." 

The  round,  keen  eyes  of  the  black  child  were  overcast 
with  tears; — large,  bright  drops  rolled  heavily  down,  one  by 
one,  and  fell  on  the  little  white  hand.  Yes,  in  that  moment, 
a  ray  of  real  belief,  a  ray  of  heavenly  love,  had  penetrated 
the  darkness  of  her  heathen  soul !  She  laid  her  head  down 
between  her  knees,  and  wept  and  sobbed, — while  the  beauti- 

ix— 13 


194 


OF  AU,  NATIONS. 


ful  child,  bending  over  her,  looked  like  the  picture  of  some 
bright  angel  stooping  to  reclaim  a  sinner. 

"Poor  Topsy!"  said  Bva,  "don't  you  know  that  Jesus 
loves  all  alike  ?  He  is  just  as  willing  to  love  you  as  me.  He 
loves  you  just  as  I  do, — only  more,  because  he  is  better.  He 
will  help  you  to  be  good;  and  you  can  go  to  heaven  at  last, 
and  be  an  angel  forever,  just  as  much  as  if  you  were  white. 
Only  think  of  it,  Topsy! — you  can  be  one  of  those  spirits 
bright,  Uncle  Tom  sings  about." 

uOh,  dear  Miss  Eva,  dear  Miss  Eva!"  said  the  child,  "  I 
will  try,  I  will  try;  I  never  did  care  nothin'  about  it  before." 

St.  Clare,  at  this  instant,  dropped  the  curtain.  "  It  puts 
me  in  mind  of  mother,"  he  said  to  Miss  Ophelia.  u  It  is  true 
what  she  told  me;  if  we  want  to  give  sight  to  the  blind,  we 
must  be  willing  to  do  as  Christ  did, — call  them  to  us,  and/#/ 
our  hands  on  them." 

<(Pve  always  had  a  prejudice  against  negroes,"  said  Miss 
Ophelia,  "  and  it's  a  fact,  I  never  could  bear  to  have  that 
child  touch  me;  but  I  did  n't  think  she  knew  it." 

"Trust  any  child  to  find  that  out,"  said  St.  Clare; 
"  there  *s  no  keeping  it  from  them.  But  I  believe  that  all 
the  trying  in  the  world  to  benefit  a  child,  and  all  the  sub- 
stantial favors  you  can  do  them,  will  never  excite  one  emo- 
tion of  gratitude,  while  that  feeling  of  repugnance  remains 
in  the  heart; — it 's  a  queer  kind  of  a  fact, — but  so  it  is," 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

PERIOD  VII.    1810-1850. 


'ITH  the  dawn  of  the  nineteenth  century  English 
Literature,  which  had  seemed  destined  to  fall 
into  humdrum  monotony,  entered  upon  a  new 
era  of  vigorous  growth,  similar  in  intensity  and 
variety  to  the  Elizabethan  age.  Many  causes  con- 
pired  to  produce  this  result.  Foremost  among 
these  was  the  intellectual  ferment  consequent  upon  the  French 
Revolution,  the  crusade  for  the  rights  of  man,  and  the  Conti- 
nental wars.  Much  was  due  to  the  rise  of  an  antiquarian 
spirit,  fostered  by  the  publication  of  Percy's  "  Reliques  of 
Ancient  English  Poetry,"  and  to  the  revival  of  interest  in  the 
drama.  Still  another  element  in  the  literary  revival  was  the 
establishment  of  the  quarterly  reviews,  which,  though  in- 
tended for  political  purposes,  were  mainly  devoted  to  literature, 
and  afforded  good  opportunity  for  able  writers  to  test  their 
powers.  It  is  impossible  to  give  due  credit  to  all  who  took 
part  in  the  literary  revolution,  and  we  must  be  content  with 
naming  the  principal  leaders. 

The  foremost  one — Sir  Walter  Scott — has  already  been 
sketched,*  and  his  success  in  reviving  interest  in  the  world 
of  chivalry  has  been  acknowledged.  It  was  not  until  1814 
that  he  withdrew  from  poetry,  after  notable  achievement,  to 
that  new  domain  where  he  reigns  supreme. 

The  more  brilliant  poetic  genius  of  the  youthful  Byron 
challenged  the  world's  regard,  and  his  strenuous  self-assertion 


*See  Volume  VIII,  pp.  355-360. 


195 


I96  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

won  its  utmost  favor,  until  his  untamable  vices  caused  his 
banishment  from  home.  He  was  the  most  powerful  poet  of  his 
time,  combining  impassioned  strength  with  the  finest  sense  of 
the  beautiful.  His  influence  remains  unimpaired  on  the 
Continent  of  Europe,  though  it  has  declined  in  his  native 
land. 

The  strongest  possible  contrast  with  the  passionate  Byron 
is  offered  by  the  poet  Wordsworth,  who  slowly  rose  to  fame. 
Self-centered,  he  is  ever  free  from  passion;  by  calm  observa- 
tion of  life,  he  is  stirred  to  quiet  pathos;  his  delight  is  in 
communion  with  nature  in  its  various  aspects,  by  which  he 
rises  at  times  to  an  intensely  solemn  awe,  as  in  the  immediate 
presence  of  God.  With  Wordsworth,  to  some  extent,  is  asso- 
ciated Coleridge,  more  potent  as  a  teacher  and  speculative 
philosopher  than  as  a  poet,  though  he  produced  some  exquisite 
poems.  Unnerved  by  opium  for  the  duties  of  practical  life, 
he  yet  introduced  into  English  thought  new  principles,  partly 
derived  from  Germany. 

In  another  group  of  poets  of  this  prolific  period  are  found 
Shelley  and  Keats.  Shelley,  intensely  radical  in  thought  and 
life,  full  of  protest  against  all  existing  law,  aimed  at  an  ideal, 
impracticable  philanthropy.  In  native  felicity  of  poetic  adorn- 
ment he  excelled  all  rivals  except  Keats.  The  latter  versi- 
fied with  wonderful  sweetness  the  classical  dreams  of  his 
immature  youth.  His  brief  career  prevented  the  full  accom- 
plishment of  what  his  genius  promised. 

Closely  connected,  in  actual  life  or  in  character  of  work, 
with  sbme  of  these  leaders  were  poets  whose  productions  are 
still  familiar.  Thus  Moore,  the  composer  of  exquisite  mel- 
odies, was  attached  to  Byron ;  the  Scotchman,  Campbell,  in 
his  youth  composed  noble  lyrics,  but  in  manhood  lost  his 
pristine  vigor ;  Wilson,  who  seemed  to  have  some  of  Shelley's 
musical  power,  became  best  known  as  "  Christopher  North," 
editor  of  BlackwoocCs  Magazine ;  South ey,  who  was  grouped 
with  Wordsworth  as  a  "L,ake  Poet,"  became  overweighted 
with  learning  and  failed  in  his  ambitious  epics. 

But  great  and  varied  as  was  the  poetical  product  of  the 
first  half  century,  its  chief  literary  distinction  was  the  sur- 
prising growth  of  the  novel.  Sir  Walter  Scott  had  some  not- 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  197 

able  followers  iu  the  historical  field,  but  more  contented 
themselves  with  trying  to  depict  society  as  they  found  or 
fancied  it  around  them.  Sir  Edward  Bulwer  L,ytton,  with 
astonishing  versatility,  from  youth  to  old  age,  explored  various 
new  fields  of  fiction.  His  novels  show  skill  of  design  and 
great  natural  force  of  serious  passion.  Those  of  his  youth 
were  blamed  for  immoral  tendency,  but  in  later  years  he  be- 
came an  ethical  teacher.  He  is  almost  the  only  playwright 
of  the  century  who  constructed  dramas  of  high  order  that 
have  been  able  to  keep  the  stage. 

A  new  school  of  novelists  was  inaugurated  by  Dickens, 
who  undertook  to  present  with  some  slight  exaggerations 
the  characters  of  ordinary  London  life  among  the  lower 
classes.  He  has  unrivalled  power  of  exciting  emotion  in  all 
its  ranges  from  intense  horror  to  melting  pathos.  His  success 
is  due  to  his  sharp  observation  and  powerful  sympathy  with 
real  life.  He  lacks  lofty  imagination.  Thackeray  belonged 
to  a  higher  class  of  society  than  Dickens  and  was  able  to  re- 
veal scenes  of  its  life,  but  he  failed  to  arouse  lively  sympathy. 
His  strength  was  in  sharp  analysis  and  irony,  sometimes  ban- 
tering, sometimes  sarcastic.  Many  men  of  note  in  other 
walks  of  life  ventured  occasionally  to  write  novels  as  the 
readiest  way  to  reach  the  public  mind. 

A  marked  feature  of  the  nineteenth  century  has  been  the 
increasing  proportion  of  women  among  the  writers,  and  the 
merit  of  their  work.  It  is  not  inappropriate,  therefore,  that 
the  greater  part  of  this  period  bears  the  name  of  England's 
latest  queen.  Jane  Austen  and  Maria  Edgeworth  had  begun 
novel  writing  before  the  appearance  of  "Waverley,"  the  for- 
mer depicting  English,  and  the  latter  Irish  society.  More 
powerful  and  of  more  lasting  fame  than  either  was  Charlotte 
Bronte,  the  author  of  "Jane  Eyre."  In  poetry  Mrs.  Hemans 
was  distinguished  by  romantic  sweetness.  Joanna  Baillie 
was  thought  by  contemporary  critics  to  have  attained  unique 
fame  by  her  tragedies,  but  these  are  now  utterly  neglected. 
Miss  Mitford  also  aspired  to  dramatic  fame,  but  is  remembered 
by  her  delightful  descriptions  of  "  Our  Village." 


198  UTERATURE  OF  AM,  NATIONS. 


GEORGE  CRABBE. 

RURAL  life  had  been  a  theme  of  many  English  poets, 
sometimes  drawn  partly  true  to  life,  as  in  Goldsmith's  u  De- 
serted Village, "  but  more  frequently  in  the  thoroughly  unreal 
style  of  pastoral  poets  who  wrote  for  the  amusement  of  courts. 
Crabbe  was  the  first  strict  realist,  and  in  uThe  Village"  de- 
scribed the  actual  life  of  its  half-starved  inhabitants,  the 
hopeless  struggle  of  the  peasants,  and  the  misery  of  the 
work-house.  He  used  the  heroic  couplet  and  the  epigram- 
matic style  of  Pope.  Byron  pronounced  him  "  Life's  sternest 
painter  and  the  best. ' ' 

George  Crabbe  was  born  at  Aldborough  in  Suffolk,  in 
1754.  He  became  a  surgeon,  but  not  succeeding  in  his  pro- 
fession, went  to  L/ondon  to  try  his  fortune  at  literature.  After 
many  disappointments  he  obtained  favor  from  Burke  and 
published  "The  Library"  in  1781.  He  then  took  orders  in 
the  Church,  but  soon  published  "The  Village, "  which 
attracted  general  attention,  and  next  "The  Newspaper " 
(1785).  These  were  all  collections  of  poetical  tales,  carefully 
drawn  pictures  of  English  lower  life.  For  twenty  years  Crabbe 
devoted  himself  entirely  to  parish  work.  Then  he  resumed 
his  poetical  descriptions,  sometimes  pathetic,  sometimes  hu- 
morous, in  "The  Parish  Register/'  "The  Borough,"  and 
other  volumes.  In  1819  he  issued  his  last  work,  "Tales  of 
the  Hall."  This,  dealing  with  lives  of  the  upper  classes, 
was  less  successful  than  his  earlier  tales.  He  died  in  1832. 


PHCEBE  DAWSON. 

Two  summers  since,  I  saw,  at  Lammas  fair, 
The  sweetest  flower  that  ever  blossom' d  there ; 
When  Phoebe  Dawson  gayly  cross' d  the  green, 
In  haste  to  see  and  happy  to  be  seen ; 
Her  air,  her  manners,  all  who  saw  admired, 
Courteous  though  coy,  and  gentle  though  retired  ; 
The  joy  of  youth  and  health  her  eyes  display 'd, 
And  ease  of  heart  her  every  look  convey 'd ; 


ENGUSH   LITERATURE.  199 

A  native  skill  her  simple  robes  express'd, 

As  with  untutor'd  elegance  she  dress' d  ; 

The  lads  around  admired  so  fair  a  sight, 

And  Phoebe  felt,  and  felt  she  gave,  delight. 

Admirers  soon  of  every  age  she  gain'd, 

Her  beauty  won  them  and  her  worth  retain'd  ; 

Envy  itself  could  no  contempt  display, 

They  wish'd  her  well,  whom  yet  they  wish'd  away ; 

Correct  in  thought,  she  judged  a  servant's  place 

Preserved  a  rustic  beauty  from  disgrace ; 

But  yet  on  Sunday-eve,  in  freedom's  hour, 

With  secret  joy  she  felt  that  beauty's  power; 

When  some  proud  bliss  upon  the  heart  would  steal,  t 

That  poor  or  rich,  a  beauty  still  must  feel. 

At  length,  the  youth,  ordain'd  to  move  her  breast, 
Before  the  swains  with  bolder  spirit  press' d  ; 
With  looks  less  timid  made  his  passion  known, 
And  pleased  by  manners  most  unlike  her  own  ; 
Loud  though  in  love,  and  confident  though  young, 
Fierce  in  his  air,  and  voluble  of  tongue ; 
By  trade  a  tailor,  though,  in  scorn  of  trade, 
He  served  the  squire,  and  brush'd  the  coat  he  made; 
Yet  now,  would  Phcebe  her  consent  afford, 
Her  slave  alone,  again  he'd  mount  the  board; 
With  her  should  years  of  growing  love  be  spent, 
And  growing  wealth  : — she  sigh'd,  and  look'd  consent. 
Now  through  the  lane,  up  hill  and  cross  the  green — 
Seen  by  but  few  and  blushing  to  be  seen — 
Dejected,  thoughtful,  anxious  and  afraid — 
lyed  by  the  lover,  walked  the  silent  maid  ; 
Slow  through  the  meadows  roved  they  many  a  mile, 
Toyed  by  each  bank,  and  trifled  at  each  stile ; 
Where,  as  he  painted  every  blissful  view, 
And  highly  colored  what  he  strongly  drew, 
The  pensive  damsel,  prone  to  tender  fears, 
Dimmed  the  false  prospect  with  prophetic  tears ; 
Thus  passed  the  allotted  hours,  till,  lingering  late, 
The  lover  loitered  at  the  master's  gate ; 
There  he  pronounced  Adieu  !  and  yet  would  stay, 
Till  chidden — soothed — entreated— forced  away  ! 
He  would  of  coldness,  though  indulged,  complain, 
And  oft  retire  and  oft  return  again ; 


2oo  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

When,  if  his  teasing  vexed  her  gentle  mind, 
The  grief  assumed  compelled  her  to  be  kind. 
For  he  would  proof  of  plighted  kindness  crave, 
That  she  resented  first,  and  then  forgave, 
And  to  his  grief  and  penance  yielded  more, 
Than  his  presumption  had  required  before. 
Ah  !  fly  temptation,  youth  ;  refrain  !  refrain! 
Bach  yielding  maid  and  each  presuming  swain  ! 

Lo  !  now  with  red  rent  cloak  and  bonnet  black, 
And  torn  green  gown  loose  hanging  at  her  back, 
One  who  an  infant  in  her  arms  sustains, 
And  seems  in  patience  striving  with  her  pains  ; 
Pinch' d  are  her  looks,  as  one  who  pines  for  bread, 
Whose  cares  are  growing  and  whose  hopes  are  fled ; 
Pale  her  parch' d  lips,  her  heavy  eyes  sunk  low, 
And  tears  unnoticed  from  their  channels  flow ; 
Serene  her  manner,  till  some  sudden  pain 
Frets  the  meek  soul,  and  then  she's  calm  again ; 
Her  broken  pitcher  to  the  pool  she  takes, 
And  every  step  with  cautious  terror  makes ; 
For  not  alone  that  infant  in  her  arms, 
But  nearer  cause  her  anxious  soul  alarms ; 
With  water  burden' d  then  she  picks  her  way, 
Slowly  and  cautious,  in  the  clinging  clay; 
Till,  in  mid  green,  she  trusts  a  place  unsound, 
And  deeply  plunges  in  the  adhesive  ground ; 
Thence,  but  with  pain,  her  slender  foot  she  takes, 
While  hope  the  mind,  as  strength  the  frame  forsakes 
For  when  so  full  the  cup  of  sorrow  grows, 
Add  but  a  drop,  it  instantly  o'erflows. 

And  now  her  path,  but  not  her  peace,  she  gains, 
Safe  from  her  task,  but  shivering  with  her  pains ; 
Her  home  she  reaches,  open  leaves  the  door, 
And  placing  first  her  infant  on  the  floor, 
She  bares  her  bosom  to  the  wind,  and  sits, 
And  sobbing  struggles  with  the  rising  fits  ; 
In  vain — they  come,  she  feels  the  inflating  grief, 
That  shuts  the  swelling  bosom  from  relief; 
That  speaks  in  feeble  cries  a  soul  distress' d, 
Or  the  sad  laugh  that  cannot  be  repress' d. 
The  neighbor  matron  leaves  her  wheel,  and  flies 
With  all  the  aid  her  poverty  supplies  ; 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  2OI 

Unfee'd,  the  calls  of  nature  she  obeys, 
Not  led  by  profit,  not  allured  by  praise ; 
And  waiting  long,  till  these  contentions  cease, 
She  speaks  of  comfort,  and  departs  in  peace. 

Friend  of  distress !  the  mourner  feels  thy  aid ; 
She  cannot  pay  thee,  but  thou  wilt  be  paid. 

But  who  this  child  of  weakness,  want  and  care  ? 
'Tis  Phoebe  Dawson,  pride  of  Lammas  Fair: 
Who  took  her  lover  for  his  sparkling  eyes, 
Expressions  warm,  and  love-inspiring  lies: 
Compassion  first  assailed  her  gentle  heart, 
For  all  his  suffering,  all  his  bosom's  smart : 
"And  then  his  prayers !  they  would  a  savage  move, 
And  win  the  coldest  of  the  sex  to  love : " — 
But  ah  !  too  soon  his  looks  success  declared, 
Too  late  her  loss  the  marriage  rite  repaired  ; 
The  faithless  flatterer  then  his  vows  forgot, 
A  captious  tyrant  or  a  noisy  sot : 
If  present,  railing,  till  he  saw  her  pained ; 
If  absent,  spending  what  their  labors  gained ; 
Till  that  fair  form  in  want  and  sickness  pined, 
And  hope  and  comfort  fled  that  gentle  mind. 

THE  APPROACH  OF  OLD  AGE. 

Six  years  had  passed,  and  forty  ere  the  six, 

When  time  began  to  play  his  usual  tricks ; 

The  locks  once  comely  in  a  virgin's  sight, 

Locks  of  pure  brown,  displayed  the  encroaching  white ; 

The  blood,  once  fervid,  now  to  cool  began, 

And  time's  strong  pressure  to  subdue  the  man. 

I  rode  or  walked  as  I  was  wont  before, 

But  now  the  bounding  spirit  was  no  more; 

A  moderate  pace  would  now  my  body  heat ; 

A  walk  of  moderate  length  distress  my  feet 

In  fact,  I  felt  a  languor  stealing  on ; 

The  active  arm,  the  agile  hand,  were  gone ; 

Small  daily  actions  into  habits  grew, 

And  new  dislike  to  forms  and  fashions  new. 

I  loved  my  trees  in  order  to  dispose  ; 

I  numbered  peaches,  looked  how  stocks  arose , 

Told  the  same  story  oft— in  short,  began  to  prose. 


CONTRADICTORY  readings  may  be  taken 
of  Byron's  character  and  achievements,  and 
each  of  them  be  largely  true.  That  he  owned  true  genius,  bril- 
liant and  forceful,  is  indisputable,  and  yet  he  would  trail  it  in 
the  mire  for  the  sake  of  a  cynical  laugh.  No  poet  was  moved 
by  intenser  passion  for  the  good  and  the  beautiful,  and  none 
so  lightly  prostituted  it  to  baser  ends.  His  heart  beat 
ardently  with  generous,  noble,  and  even  self-sacrificing  im- 
pulses; yet  it  could  harden  at  will  into  adamantine  selfishness, 
morose  hatred  of  his  species,  expressed  in  brutish  acts.  Byron's 
poetry  is  Byron  himself,  thoroughly  romantic,  dazzlingly 
bright  and  beautiful  when  soaring  free  above  the  contamina- 
tions of  the  sodden  camping  ground,  and  proportionately 
morbid  and  miserable  as  he  sinks  by  his  own  weight  to  that 
malarious  level. 

George  Noel  Gordon  Byron  was  born  in  London  in  1788. 
His  profligate  father,  known  as  "Mad  Jack  Byron"  of  the 
Guards,  after  wasting  his  wife's  fortune,  deserted  her,  and  died, 
leaving  mother  and  child  with  only  a  small  fixed  income  of 
about  £120  a  year.  Mrs.  Byron  was  a  passionate  creature, 
caressing  the  beautiful,  little  lame  boy  one  moment,  and 
beating  him  the  next.  At  the  age  of  ten  Byron  inherited  his 
title  from  a  grand-uncle,  William,  Lord  Byron,  with  the  en- 
cumbered estate  of  Newstead  Abbey.  He  went  to  Harrow 
and  to  Cambridge,  but  was,  in  both  places,  an  idle  and  irreg- 
ular student,  refusing  to  pursue  the  usual  studies  of  the  col- 
lege curriculum ;  but  reading  English  literature  and  every 
history  he  could  lay  his  hands  on,  in  the  intervals  of  riding, 
fencing,  boxing,  drinking,  gaming  and  the  like. 
202 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  203 

He  scribbled  verses  while  at  Harrow,  and  in  1807  pub- 
lished a  little  book  of  mediocre  poems  called  "  Hours  of  Idle- 
ness. ' '  The  Edinburgh  Review  scored  this  with  a  stinging 
criticism  ;  and  Byron  dashed  back,  in  an  outburst  of  rage,  his 
"  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers. "  Some  notion  of  his 
violent  young  prejudices  may  be  formed  from  the  fact,  that  he 
speaks  in  it  of  Scott  as  a  "hireling  lord,"  of  Coleridge,  "to 
turgid  ode  and  tumid  stanza  dear,"  and  of  "vulgar  Words- 
worth." 

From  his  earliest  years  the  poet  had  been  passionate,  af- 
fectionate and  moody.  He  quarreled  violently  with  his 
mother  until  her  death — just  after  his  return  to  England  from 
his  travels.  In  London  he  lived  the  life  of  a  man  about 
town,  a  poor  lord,  with  "coffee-house  companions,"  and  per- 
haps three  intimates — the  poets  Moore,  Campbell  and  Rogers. 
At  twenty-one  he  could  hardly  find  any  one  to  introduce  him 
to  the  House  of  Lords,  where  he  took  his  seat  by  right  of 
birth.  He  was  perhaps  not  worse  than  many  young  men  of 
his  age  and  rank ;  but  solitary  and  forlorn,  he  was  without 
home,  without  relations,  almost  without  friends — a  sort  of 
social  pariah. 

In  1809  Byron,  deeply  wounded  and  despondent,  left  home 
and  traveled  through  Spain,  Albania,  Greece,  Turkey  and 
Asia  Minor.  On  his  return  he  published  the  first  two  cantos  of 
"  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage,"  and  " awoke  one  morning  to 
find  himself  famous. ' '  The  success  of  this  poem  flashing,  like 
a  comet  across  the  horizon,  depended  not  more  on  the  easy 
and  sustained  fluency  of  its  descriptions,  than  on  the  fact  of 
its  picturing  scenes  and  countries  then  almost  unknown  and 
unvisited.  Besides  which  it  contains  the  personal  heartache 
of  a  mysterious  young  sufferer  and  outcast ;  and  for  Childe 
Harold  the  public  easily  read  Childe  Byron. 

After  the  triumphant  success  of  "Childe  Harold,"  every 
door  in  England  was  thrown  open  to  the  noble  author.  He 
was  courted  by  great  men  and  good  women.  His  genius  daz- 
zled ;  his  pure,  pale,  melancholy,  sculpturesque  face  won  and 
endeared  him ;  his  sweet  voice,  and  gentle  manners,  and 
graceful  form — spite  of  a  slight  lameness — attracted  every  eye. 
He  was  courted,  Bettered,  idolized  ;  and  pushed,  breathlessly, 


204  LITERATURE  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

by  his  admirers  to  the  giddiest  pinnacle  of  the  Temple  of  Fame. 
During  this  period,  amid  all  the  frivolousness  and  hurry  of 
fashionable  life,  Byron  found  time  to  pour  forth  some  of  his 
most  matchless  strains:  "The  Giaour,"  "The  Bride  of 
Abydos,"  "  The  Corsair,"  "  Lara,"  "  The  Siege  of  Corinth" 
and  "  Parisina."  One  hero  stalks  through  them  all : 

' '  The  man  of  loneliness  and  mystery, 
Scarce  seen  to  smile,  and  seldom  heard  to  sigh." 

Young  England  became  enamored  of  light  dark  curls,  a 
scowling  brow,  low  rolling  collars,  and  melancholy.  Many 
gentle  hearts  yearned  for  the  poet's  love,  and  one,  Lady  Caro- 
line Lamb's,  is  said  to  have  been  broken.  This  unhealthy 
dream  lasted  four  years.  Then  Byron  married  Miss  Mil- 
banke,  an  heiress.  A  daughter  was  born,  named  Ada,  whose 
son,  Lord  Lovelace,  still  lives  in  England.  Lady  Byron  left 
her  husband  within  a  year,  no  one  really  knows  why,  though 
many  vain  guesses  have  been  made.  The  wife  told  her  physi- 
cian she  thought  her  husband  mad.  The  world  took  sides,  and 
Byron  left  England  forever ;  his  subsequent  career  justifying 
the  worst  suspicions  of  his  worst  enemies.  He  resided,  for  a 
little  while,  in  Geneva,  with  Shelley,  Mary  Godwin,  and  her 
step-sister,  Jane  Clermont.  The  latter' s  child,  Allegra,  whose 
father  was  Lord  Byron,  was  supported  for  some  years  by 
Shelley ;  as  was  its  mother.  The  poor  little  waif  died  early. 
The  poet  passed  on  to  Venice,  and  London  believed  that  he 
had  a  harem  there.  In  Ravenna  he  lived  with  the  young  and 
beautiful  Countess  Guiccioli.  Her  husband  was  separated 
from  her ;  and,  Italian  fashion,  the  father  and  brother  resided 
in  one  end  of  a  great  palace,  with  the  daughter  and  her  lover 
at  the  other.  While  in  Ravenna,  living  in  comparative  tran- 
quillity, Byron  wrote  several  new  works ;  among  others, 
"Cain,"  "A  Vision  of  Judgment, "  his  dramas  and  the  pas- 
sionate, witty,  original,  and  rakish  "Don  Juan."  "  Childe 
Harold"  had  been  completed  in  Switzerland.  There,  too, 
he  wrote  "The  Prisoner  of  Chillon." 

By  this  time,  at  the  age  of  thirty-six,  he  had  exhausted 
everything ;  hope,  of  which  he  had  but  little  store ;  fame, 
pleasure,  most  of  his  fortune ;  even  the  springs  of  his  genius, 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  2O5 

the  contemplation  and  expression  of  his  own  wounded  self- 
love. 

In  1823  he  set  sail  for  Greece,  hoping  to  aid  her  in  her 
struggle  for  independence ;  and  he  died  of  fever  in  Misso- 
longhi,  in  1824,  disenchanted  at  the  last;  for  " instead  of 
patriotism  he  found  fraud  and  confusion,  a  military  mob,  and 
contending  chiefs."  Byron's  body  was  interred  near  New- 
stead  Abbey,  amid  England's  sobs  of  grief. 

The  poet's  verse  is  forceful,  splendid,  glowing  and  sus- 
tained ;  but  the  enchantment  of  it,  in  his  generation,  lay  in 
this:  Byron  had  a  romantic  story  to  tell,  and  the  world 
identified  him  with  his  one  hero,  posing  under  different 
names — Harold,  Conrad,  Lara,  Manfred.  "Every  replica 
was  received  with  acclamation  ;  and  in  the  full  illumination 
of  the  nineteenth  century  the  sham-heroic  pirate  chief  was, 
to  them,  a  revelation  from  heaven."  Byron  the  poet  had 
genius,  fire,  force,  strength,  ease  and  headlong  passion. 
Byron  the  man  had  an  aching  heart  that  loved  to  make  other 
hearts  ache.  He  was  without  conscience,  without  shame, 
without  a  sense  of  responsibility  to  God  and  man.  Much 
that  he  has  written  will  always  be  admired  and  remembered ; 
some  of  it  will  be  pestilence-breeding  to  .the  end. 

GREECE  IN  HER  DECAY. 

(From  the  "Giaour.") 
HE  who  hath  bent  him  o'er  the  dead, 
Ere  the  first  day  of  death  is  fled — 
The  first  dark  day  of  nothingness, 
The  last  of  danger  and  distress, 
(Before  Decay's  effacing  fingers 
Have  swept  the  lines  where  beauty  lingers), 
And  marked  the  mild  angelic  air, 
The  rapture  of  repose  that's  there : 
The  fixed  yet  tender  traits  that  streak 
The  languor  of  that  placid  cheek, 
And — but  for  that  sad  shrouded  eye, 
That  fires  not,  wins  not,  weeps  not,  now, 
And  but  for  that  chill  changeless  brow 
Where  cold  Obstruction's  apathy 
Appalls  the  gazing  mourner's  heart, 


206  UTSRATURE  OF  AI,!,  NATIONS- 

As  if  to  him  it  could  impart 
The  doom  he  dreads,  yet  dwells  upon ; 
Yes,  but  for  these,  and  these  alone, 
Some  moments — aye,  one  treacherous  hour- 
He  still  might  doubt  the  tyrant's  power: 
So  fair,  so  calm,  so  softly  sealed, 
The  first,  last  look  by  death  revealed. 

Such  is  the  aspect  of  this  shore : 

'Tis  Greece — but  living  Greece  no  more! 

So  coldly  sweet,  so  deadly  fair, 

We  start,  for  soul  is  wanting  there. 

Hers  is  the  loveliness  in  death, 

That  parts  not  quite  with  parting  breath ; 

But  beauty  with  that  fearful  bloom, 

That  hue  which  haunts  it  to  the  tomb, 

Expression's  last  receding  ray, 

A  gilded  halo  hovering  round  decay, 

The  farewell  beam  of  Feeling  past  away  ! 

Spark  of  that  flame,  perchance  of  heavenly  birth, 

Which  gleams,  but  warms  no  more  its  cherished  earth. 

Clime  of  the  unforgotten  brave  ! 

Whose  land,  from  plain  to  mountain  cave, 

Was  Freedom's  shrine  or  Glory's  grave! 

Shrine  of  the  mighty  !  can  it  be 

That  this  is  all  remains  of  thee  ? 

CHILLON. 

BTERNAI,  spirit  of  the  chainless  mind ! 

Brightest  in  dungeons,  Liberty  !  thou  art, 

For  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart — 
The  heart  which  love  of  thee  alone  can  bind  ; 
And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  consigned — 

To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault's  day  less  gloom, 

Their  country  conquers  with  their  martyrdom, 
And  Freedom's  fame  finds  wings  on  every  wind. 
Chillon !  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place, 

And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar-  for  'twas  trod, 
Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace 

Worn,  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a  sod, 
By  Bonnivard  !     May  none  those  marks  efface ! 

For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God. 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  207 


THE  OCEAN. 

(From  "Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage.") 

ROLL  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  ocean— roll  I 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain ; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin — his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore ; — upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own, 
When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan, 
Without  a  grave,  unknell'd,  uncofim'd  and  unknown. 

His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths, — thy  fields 

Are  not  a  spoil  for  him, — thou  dost  arise 

And  shake  him  from  thee ;  the  vile  strength  he  wields 

For  earth's  destruction  thou  dost  all  despise, 

Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies, 

And  send'st  him,  shivering  in  thy  playful  spray 

And  howling  to  his  Gods,  where  haply  lies 

His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay, 

And  dashest  him  again  to  earth ; — there  let  him  lay, 

The  armaments  which  thunder-strike  the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake, 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals, 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war ; 
These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake, 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which  mar 
Alike  the  Armada's  pride,  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  thee — 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what  are  they? 
Thy  waters  wasted  them  while  they  were  free, 
And  many  a  tyrant  since ;  their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage ;  their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts : — not  so  thou, 
Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  wave's  play — 
Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thy  azure  brow — 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollest  now 


2O8  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's  form 

Glasses  itself  in  tempests :  in  all  time, 

Calm  or  convulsed — in  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm, 

Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 

Dark-heaving ; — boundless,  endless  and  sublime — 

The  image  of  Eternity — the  throne 

Of  the  Invisible ;  even  from  out  thy  slime 

The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made ;  each  zone 

Obeys  thee ;  thou  goest  forth,  dread,  fathomless,  aione, 

And  I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean  !  and  my  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward :  from  a  boy 
I  wanton' d  with  thy  breakers — they  to  me 
Were  a  delight ;  and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a  terror — 'twas  a  pleasing  fear, 
For  I  was,  as  it  were,  a  child  of  thee, 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near, 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane — as  I  do  here. 

THK  DYING  GLADIATOR. 

I  SEE  before  me  the  gladiator  lie  : 
He  leans  upon  his  hand ;  his  manly  brow 
Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  agony, 
And  his  drooped  head  sinks  gradually  low: 
And  through  his  side  the  last  drops,  ebbing  slow 
From  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one, 
I^ike  the  first  of  a  thunder-shower ;  and  now 
The  arena  swims  around  him ;  he  is  gone, 
Ere  ceased  the  inhuman   shout  which  hailed  the  wretch 
who  won. 

He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not ;  his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away : 
He  recked  not  of  the  life  he  lost,  nor  prize, 
But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay  ; 
There  were  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play, 
There  was  their  Dacian  mother — he,  their  sire, 
Butchered  to  make  a  Roman  holiday. 
And  all  this  rushed  with  his  blood.     Shall  he  expire, 
And  unavenged?    Arise,  ye  Goths,  and  glut  your  ire! 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  209 


CHILDE  HAROLD. 

IN  my  youth's  Summer  I  did  sing  of  One, 
The  wandering  outlaw  of  his  own  dark  mind. 

Again  I  seize  the  theme,  then  but  begun, 
And  bear  it  with  me,  as  the  rushing  wind 
Bears  the  cloud  onwards.     In  that  Tale  I  find 

The  furrows  of  long  thought,  and  dried-up  tears 
Which,  ebbing,  leave  a  sterile  track  behind 

O'er  which,  all  heavily  the  journeying  years 

Plod  the  last  sands  of  life— where  not  a  flower  appears. 

Since  my  young  days  of  passion — joy  or  pain — 
Perchance  my  heart  and  harp  have  lost  a  string, 

And  both  may  jar.     It  may  be  that  in  vain 
I  would  essay  as  I  have  sung  to  sing, 
Yet,  though  a  heavy  strain,  to  this  I  cling, 

So  that  it  wean  me  from  the  weary  dream 
Of  selfish  grief  or  gladness — so  it  fling 

Forgetfulness  around  me — it  shall  seem, 

To  me,  though  to  none  else,  a  not  ungrateful  theme. 

He  who  grown  aged  in  this  world  of  woe — 

In  deeds,  not  years — piercing  the  depths  of  life, 
So  that  no  wonder  waits  him ;  nor  below 
Can  love  or  sorrow,  fame,  ambition,  strife, 
Cut  to  his  heart  again  with  the  keen  knife 
Of  silent,  sharp  endurance :  he  can  tell 
Why  thought  seeks  refuge  in  lone  caves,  yet  rife 
With  airy  images,  and  shapes  which  dwell 
Still  unimpaired,  though  old,  in  the  soul's  haunted  cell. 

'Tis  to  create,  and  in  creating  live 

A  being  more  intense,  that  we  endow 
With  form  our  fancy,  gaining  as  we  give 

The  life  we  image — even  as  I  do  now. 

What  am  I? — Nothing :  but  not  so  art  thou, 
Soul  of  my  thought !  with  whom  I  traverse  earth 

Invisible  by  gazing,  as  I  glow 
Mixed  with  thy  spirit,  blended  with  thy  birth, 
And  feeling  still  with  thee  in  my  crushed  feelings'  dearth, 
ix— 14 


210  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

Yet  I  must  think  less  wildly : — I  have  thought 
Too  long  and  darkly,  till  my  brain  became, 

In  its  own  eddy  boiling  and  o'erwrought, 
A  whirling  gulf  of  phantasy  and  flame : 
And  thus,  untaught  in  youth  my  heart  to  tame, 

My  springs  of  life  were  poisoned.     'Tis  too  late ! 
Yet  am  I  changed ;  though  still  enough  the  same 

In  strength  to  bear  what  time  cannot  abate, 

And  feed  on  bitter  fruits  without  accusing  Fate. 

Something  too  much  of  this: — but  now  'tis  past, 

And  the  spell  closes  with  its  silent  seal. 
L,ong  absent  Harold  reappears  at  last ; 

He  of  the  breast  which  fain  no  more  would  feel, 

Wrung  with  the  wounds  which  kill  not,  but  ne'er  heal; 
Yet  time,  who  changes  all,  had  altered  him 

In  soul  and  aspect  as  in  age.  Years  steal 
Fire  from  the  mind  as  vigor  from  the  limb  ; 
And  life's  enchanted  cup  but  sparkles  near  the  brim. 

THE  SHIPWRECK. 

(From  "Don Juan.") 
'TwAS  twilight,  and  the  sunless  day  went  down 

Over  the  waste  of  waters :  like  a  veil, 
Which,  if  withdrawn,  would  but  disclose  the  frown 

Of  one  whose  hate  is  masked  but  to  assail. 
Thus  to  their  hopeless  eyes  the  night  was  shown, 

And  grimly  darkled  o'er  the  faces  pale, 
And  the  dim  desolate  deep.     Twelve  days  had  Fear 
Been  their  familiar :  and  now  Death  was  near.  .  .  . 

At  half-past  eight  o'clock,  booms,  hencoops,  spars, 
And  all  things,  for  a  chance,  had  been  cast  loose, 

That  still  could  keep  afloat  the  struggling  tars — 
For  yet  they  strove,  although  of  no  great  use : 

There  was  no  light  in  heaven  but  a  few  stars. 
The  boats  put  off,  o'ercrowded  with  their  crews. 

She  gave  a  heel,  and  then  a  lurch  to  port ; 

And,  going  down  head  foremost — sank,  in  short. 

Then  rose  from  sea  to  sky  the  wild  farewell ; 

Then  shrieked  the  timid,  and  stood  still  the  brave ; 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  211 

Then  some  leaped  overboard  with  dreadful  yell, 

As  eager  to  anticipate  their  grave ; 
And  the  sea  yawned  around  her,  like  a  hell  ; 

And  down  she  sucked  with  her  the  whirling  wave, 
Like  one  who  grapples  with  his  enemy, 
And  strives  to  strangle  him  before  he  die. 

At  first  one  universal  shriek  there  rushed, 

Louder  than  the  loud  ocean,  like  a  crash 
Of  echoing  thunder ;  and  then  all  was  hushed, 

Save  the  wild  wind,  and  the  remorseless  dash 
Of  billows.     But  at  intervals  there  gushed, 

Accompanied  with  a  convulsive  splash, 
A  solitary  shriek — the  bubbling  cry 
Of  some  strong  swimmer  in  his  agony. 

HAIDEE  VISITS  DON  JUAN. 

AND  down  the  cliff  the  island  virgin  came, 
And  near  the  cave  her  quick  light  footsteps  drew, 

While  the  sun  smiled  on  her  with  his  first  flame, 
And  young  Aurora  kissed  her  lips  with  dew, 

Taking  her  for  her  sister ;  just  the  same 

Mistake  you  would  have  made  on  seeing  the  two, 

Although  the  mortal,  quite  as  fresh  and  fair, 

Had  all  the  advantage,  too,  of  not  being  air. 

And  when  into  the  cavern  Haidee  stepped 

All  timidly,  yet  rapidly,  she  saw 
That,  like  an  infant,  Juan  sweetly  slept: 

And  then  she  stopped  and  stood  as  if  in  awe 
(For  sleep  is  awful),  and  on  tiptoe  crept 

And  wrapt  him  closer,  lest  the  air,  too  raw, 
Should  reach  his  blood ;  then  o'er  him,  still  as  death, 
Bent,  with  hushed  lips,  that  drank  his  scarce- drawn  breath. 

And  thus,  like  to  an  angel  o'er  the  dying 
Who  die  in  righteousness,  she  leaned ;  and  there 

All  tranquilly  the  shipwrecked  boy  was  lying, 
As  o'er  him  lay  the  calm  and  stirless  air: 

But  Zoe  the  meantime  some  eggs  was  frying, 
Since,  after  all,  no  doubt  the  youthful  pair 

Must  breakfast,  and  betimes — lest  they  should  ask  it, 

She  drew  out  her  provision  from  the  basket.  .  .  . 


212  WTERATURE  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

And  now,  by  dint  of  fingers  and  of  eyes, 
And  words  repeated  after  her,  he  took 

A  lesson  in  her  tongue ;  but  by  surmise, 

No  doubt,  less  of  her  language  than  her  look: 

As  he  who  studies  fervently  the  skies. 

Turns  oftener  to  the  stars  than  to  his  book: 

Thus  Juan  learned  his  alpha  beta  better 

From  Haidee's  glance  than  any  graven  letter. 

'Tis  pleasing  to  be  schooled  in  a  strange  tongue 
By  female  lips  and  eyes — that  is,  I  mean 

When  both  the  teacher  and  the  taught  are  young ; 
As  was  the  case,  at  least,  where  I  have  been ; 

They  smile  so  when  one's  right,  and  when  one's  wrong. 
They  smile  still  more,  and  then  there  intervene 

Pressure  of  hands,  perhaps  even  a  chaste  kiss ; 

I  learned  the  little  that  I  know  by  this. 

THE  DEATH  OF  HAIDEE. 

AFRIC  is  all  the  sun's,  and  as  her  earth, 
Her  human  clay  is  kindled ;  full  of  power 

For  good  or  evil,  burning  from  its  birth, 
The  Moorish  blood  partakes  the  planet's  hour, 

And,  like  the  soil  beneath  it,  will  bring  forth : 
Beauty  and  love  were  Haidee's  mother's  dower; 

But  her  large  dark  eye  showed  deep  Passion's  force, 

Though  sleeping  like  a  lion  near  a  source. 

Her  daughter,  tempered  with  a  milder  ray, 

I,ike  summer  clouds  all  silvery,  smooth,  and  fair, 

Till  slowly  charged  with  thunder,  they  display 
Terror  to  earth  and  tempest  to  the  air, 

Had  held  till  now  her  soft  and  milky  way ; 
But,  overwrought  with  passion  and  despair, 

The  fire  burst  forth  from  her  Numidian  veins, 

Even  as  the  simoon  sweeps  the  blasted  plains. 

The  last  sight  which  he  saw  was  Juan's  gore, 
And  he  himself  o'ermastered  and  cut  down; 

His  blood  was  running  on  the  very  floor 
Where  late  he  trod;  her  beautiful,  her  own ; 

Thus  much  she  viewed  an  instant  and  no  more — 
Her  struggles  ceased  with  one  convulsive  groan ; 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  213 

On  her  sire's  arm,  which  until  now  scarce  held 
Hrr  writhing,  fell  she  like  a  cedar  felled. 

A  vein  had  burst,  and  her  sweet  lips'  pure  dyes 
Were  dabbled  with  the  deep  blood  which  ran  o'er, 

And  her  head  drooped  as  when  the  lily  lies 
O'ercharged  with  rain :  her  summoned  handmaids  bore 

Their  lady  to  her  couch  with  gushing  eyes ; 
Of  herbs  and  cordials  they  produced  their  store : 

But  she  defied  all  means  they  could  employ, 

Like  one  life  could  not  hold  nor  death  destroy. 

Days  lay  she  in  that  state  unchanged,  though  chill — 
With  nothing  livid,  still  her  lips  were  red  ; 

She  had  no  pulse,  but  death  seemed  absent  still ; 
No  hideous  sign  proclaimed  her  surely  dead : 

Corruption  came  not,  in  each  mind  to  kill 
All  hope :  to  look  upon  her  sweet  face  bred 

New  thoughts  of  life,  for  it  seemed  full  of  soul — 

She  had  so  much,  earth  could  not  claim  the  whole  . .  . 

Her  handmaids  tended,  but  she  heeded  not ; 

Her  father  watched,  she  turned  her  eyes  away ; 
She  recognized  no  being,  and  no  spot, 

However  dear  or  cherished  in  their  day  ; 

They  changed  from  room  to  room,  but  all  forgot ; 

Gentle,  but  without  memory,  she  lay  ; 
At  length  those  eyes,  which  they  would  fain  be  weaning 
Back  to  old  thoughts,  waxed  full  of  fearful  meaning. 

And  then  a  slave  bethought  her  of  a  harp : 
The  harper  came  and  tuned  his  instrument  : 

At  the  first  notes,  irregular  and  sharp, 
On  him  her  flashing  eyes  a  moment  bent ; 

Then  to  the  wall  she  turned,  as  if  to  warp 

Her  thoughts  from  sorrow  through  her  heart  re-sent ; 

And  he  began  a  long  low  island  song 

Of  ancient  days  ere  tyranny  grew  strong. 

Anon  her  thin,  wan  fingers  beat  the  wall 

In  time  to  his  old  tune  ;  he  changed  the  theme, 

And  sung  of  Love ;  the  fierce  name  struck  through  all 
Her  recollection ;  on  her  flashed  the  dream 


214  UTER ATURE  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

Of  what  she  was,  and  is,  if  ye  could  call 
To  be  so  being :  in  a  gushing  stream 
The  tears  rushed  forth  from  her  o'erclouded  brain, 
I,ike  mountain  mists  at  length  dissolved  in  rain. 

Twelve  days  and  nights  she  withered  thus ;  at  last, 
Without  a  groan,  or  sigh,  or  glance,  to  show 

A  parting  pang,  the  spirit  from  her  passed : 

And  they  who  watched  her  nearest  could  not  know 

The  very  instant,  till  the  change  that  cast 
Her  sweet  face  into  shadow,  dull  and  slow, 

Glazed  o'er  her  eyes — the  beautiful,  the  black — 

Oh  to  possess  such  lustre,  and  then  lack  ! 

Thus  lived — thus  died  she ;  never  more  on  her 
Shall  sorrow  light  or  shame.     She  was  not  made 

Through  years  or  moons  the  inner  weight  to  bear, 
Which  colder  hearts  endure  till  they  are  laid 

By  age  in  earth  :  her  days  and  pleasures  were 
Brief,  but  delightful — such  as  had  not  stayed 

I/>ng  with  her  destiny ;  but  she  sleeps  well 

By  the  sea-shore  whereon  she  loved  to  dwell. 

That  isle  is  now  all  desolate  and  bare, 

Its  dwellings  down,  its  tenants  passed  away ; 

None  but  her  own  and  father's  grave  is  there, 
And  nothing  outward  tells  of  human  clay ; 

Ye  could  not  know  where  lies  a  thing  so  fair ; 
No  one  is  there  to  show,  no  tongue  to  say 

What  was ;  no  dirge  except  the  hollow  seas 

Mourns  o'er  the  beauty  of  the  Cyclades. 

MANFRED. 

IN  this  dramatic  poem  the  hero  Manfred,  though  a  mortal,  has  been 
able  to  enter  the  hall  of  Arimanes,  where  he  is  at  first  assailed  by  the 
spirits  as  an  intruder.  One  of  the  Destinies,  however,  protects  him 
and  Nemesis  asks  the  reason  of  his  coming. 

Nemesis.    What  doth  he  here  then? 

First  Destiny.    lyct  him  answer  that. 

Manfred.    Ye  know  what  I  have  known  ;  and  without 

power 
I  could  not  be  amongst  ye :  but  there  are 


ENGUSH  LITERATURE.  215 

Powers  deeper  still  beyond— I  come  in  quest 
Of  such,  to  answer  unto  what  I  seek. 
Nem.    What  would'st  thou? 
Man.   Thou  canst  not  reply  to  me. 
Call  up  the  dead — my  question  is  for  them. 

Nem.    Great  Arimanes,  doth  thy  will  avouch 
The  wishes  of  this  mortal? 
Arimanes.   Yea. 

Nem.    Whom  would'st  thou  uncharnel? 
Man.    One  without  a  tomb — call  up  Astarte. 
Nem.   Shadow !  or  Spirit ! 

Whatever  thou  art, 
Which  still  doth  inherit 

The  whole  or  a  part 
Of  the  form  of  thy  birth, 

Of  the  mould  of  thy  clay, 
Which  return 'd  to  the  earth, 

Re-appear  to  the  day  ! 
Bear  what  thou  borest, 

The  heart  and  the  form, 
And  the  aspect  thou  worest 

Redeem  from  the  worm. 
Appear  ! — Appear ! — Appear ! 
Who  sent  thee  there  requires  thee  here 

\The  Phantom  of  ASTARTE  rises  and  stands 

in  the  midst. 

Man.   Can  this  be  death  ?  there's  bloom  upon  her  cheek ; 
But  now  I  see  it  is  no  living  hue, 
But  a  strange  hectic — like  the  unnatural  red 
Which  autumn  plants  upon  the  perish 'd  leaf. 
It  is  the  same  !  Oh,  God !  that  I  should  dread 
To  look  upon  the  same — Astarte  ! — No, 
I  cannot  speak  to  her — but  bid  her  speak — 
Forgive  me  or  condemn  me. 
Nem.    By  the  power  which  hath  broken 

The  grave  which  enthrall' d  thee, 
Speak  to  him  who  hath  spoken, 

Or  those  who  have  call'd  thee ! 
Man.   She  is  silent, 
And  in  that  silence  I  am  more  than  answer'd. 

Nem.    My  power  extends  no  further.  Prince  of  air! 
It  rests  with  thee  alone — command  her  voice. 


216  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

Art.   Spirit — obey  this  sceptre ! 

Nem.    Silent  still ! 
She  is  not  of  our  order,  but  belongs 
To  the  other  powers.     Mortal !   thy  quest  is  vain, 
And  we  are  baffled  also. 

Man.    Hear  me,  hear  me — 
Astarte !  my  beloved  !  speak  to  me : 
I  have  so  much  endured — so  much  endure — 
Look  on  me!  the  grave  hath  not  changed  thee  more 
Than  I  am  changed  for  thee.     Thou  lovedst  me 
Too  much,  as  I  loved  thee  :  we  were  not  made 
To  torture  thus  each  other,  though  it  were 
The  deadliest  sin  to  love  as  we  have  loved. 
Say  that  thou  loath' st  me  not— that  I  do  bear 
This  punishment  for  both — that  thou  wilt  be 
One  of  the  blessed — and  that  I  shall  die  ; 
For  hitherto  all  hateful  things  conspire 
To  bind  me  in  existence — in  a  life 
Which  makes  me  shrink  from  immortality — 
A  future  like  the  past.     I  cannot  rest. 
I  know  not  what  I  ask,  nor  what  I  seek : 
I  feel  but  what  thou  art — and  what  I  am  ; 
And  I  would  hear  yet  once  before  I  perish 
The  voice  which  was  my  music — Speak  to  me  ! 
For  I  have  call'd  on  thee  in  the  still  night, 
Startled  the  slumbering  birds  from  the  hush'd  boughs, 
And  woke  the  mountain  wolves,  and  made  the  caves 
Acquainted  with  thy  vainly  echoed  name, 
Which  answer 'd  me — many  things  answer 'd  me — 
Spirits  and  men — but  thou  wert  silent  all. 
Yet  speak  to  me !  I  have  outwatch'd  the  stars, 
And  gazed  o'er  heaven  in  vain  in  search  of  thee. 
Speak  to  me  !  I  have  wander 'd  o'er  the  earth, 
And  never  found  thy  likeness — Speak  to  me ! 
Look  on  the  fiends  around — they  feel  for  me : 
I  fear  them  not,  and  feel  for  thee  alone — 
Speak  to  me  !  though  it  be  in  wrath  ; — but  say — 
I  reck  not  what — but  let  me  hear  thee  once — 
This  once — once  more  ! 

Phantom  of  Astarte.    Manfred  ! 

Man.    Say  on,  say  on — 
I  live  but  in  the  sound — it  is  thy  voice  ! 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  217 

Phan.    Manfred  !  To-morrow  ends  thy  earthly  ills. 
Farewell ! 

Man.   Yet  one  word  more — am  I  forgiven? 

Phan.  Farewell! 

Man.   Say,  shall  we  meet  again  ? 

Phan.    Farewell ! 

Man.   One  word  for  mercy  !   Say,  thou  lovest  me. 

Phan.    Manfred  !  [The  Spirit  of  AsTARTE  disappears. 

Nem.     She's  gone,  and  will  not  be  recall'd  ; 
Her  words  will  be  fulfill 'd.     Return  to  the  earth. 

A  Spirit.    He  is  convulsed — This  is  to  be  a  mortal 
And  seek  the  things  beyond  mortality. 

Another  Spirit.   Yet,  see,  he  mastereth  himself,  and 

makes 

His  torture  tributary  to  his  will. 
Had  he  been  one  of  us,  he  would  have  made 
An  awful  spirit. 

Nem.  Hast  thou  further  question 
Of  our  great  sovereign,  or  his  worshippers  ? 

Man.    None. 

Nem.    Then  for  a  time  farewell. 

Man.   We  meet  then !     Where  ?     On  the  earth  ?— 
Even  as  thou  wilt :  and  for  the  grace  accorded 
I  now  depart  a  debtor.    Fare  ye  well !   [Exit  MANFRED. 

BYRON'S  LAST  LINES. 

(On  completing  my  thirty-sixth  year.) 

'Tis  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved, 

Since  others  it  hath  ceased  to  move ; 
Yet  though  I  cannot  be  beloved, 

Still  let  me  love. 

My  days  are  in  the  yellow  leaf; 

The  flowers  and  fruits  of  love  are  gone, 
The  worm,  the  canker,  and  the  grief, 

Are  mine  alone.  .  .  . 

But  'tis  not  thus,  and  'tis  not  here, 

Such  thoughts  should  shake  my  soul,  nor  now, 
Where  glory  decks  the  hero's  bier, 

Or  binds  his  brow. 


2i8  UTERATURE  OF  AI<I,  NATIONS. 

The  sword,  the  banner,  and  the  field, 
Glory  and  Greece,  around  me  see ! 

The  Spartan,  borne  upon  his  shield, 
Was  not  more  free. 

Awake !  (not  Greece — she  is  awake !) — 
Awake,  my  spirit !    Think  through  whom 

Thy  life-blood  tracks  its  parent  lake, 
And  then  strike  home ! 

Tread  these  reviving  passions  down, 
Unworthy  manhood !  Unto  thee 

Indifferent  should  the  smile  or  frown 
Of  beauty  be. 

If  thou  regrett'st  thy  youth,  why  live? 

The  land  of  honorable  death 
Is  here : — up  to  the  field,  and  give 

Away  thy  breath ! 

Seek  out — less  often  sought  than  found — 
A  soldier's  grave  for  thee  the  best ; 

Then  look  around,  and  choose  thy  ground 
And  take  thy  rest. 


PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY. 


THOUGH  the  heir  of  an  ancient  and  wealthy  house,  Shelley 
was  a  rebel,  a  freethinker,  a  democrat,  an  atheist  from  boy- 
hood, everything,  indeed,  that  his  family  was  not.  When  a 
pupil  at  Eton  College  the  fagging  system  fretted  and  out- 
raged him  beyond  endurance  ;  and  there  he  began  his  career 
of  strife  and  indignant  resistance  against  all  existing  law. 
He  was  expelled  from  Oxford  for  writing  and  publishing  a 
tract  on  uThe  Necessity  of  Atheism."  His  father  cast  him 
off  for  a  time ;  his  sisters  sent  him  pocket-money  by  a  young 
schoolmate,  named  Harriet  Westbrook,  who  fell  in  love  with 
him.  He  was  grateful,  he  was  lonely,  and  he,  not  twenty, 
married  her,  not  seventeen.  Shelley's  father  allowed  the 
young  couple  £200  a  year,  and  on  this  sum  they  strayed 
through  Scotland,  Wales,  and  England  in  1811. 

Meanwhile  Shelley  became  acquainted  with  William  God- 
win, author  of  "  Political  Justice,"  and  welcomed  a  kindred 
soul,  as  much  opposed  to  law  as  Shelley  himself,  particularly 
the  law  of  marriage.  His  wife  had  been  the  gifted  and  un- 
fortunate Mary  Wollstonecraft,  and  the  two  were  not  legally 
wedded  until  just  before  the  birth  of  a  daughter.  Godwin 
had  married  again,  a  widow,  Mrs.  Clermont,  who  also  had  a 
daughter,  Jane  Clermont.  Mary  Godwin,  a  fair,  serious  girl 
of  seventeen,  was  unhappy  with  her  stepmother,  and  when 
this  beautiful  youth,  Shelley,  put  his  hand  in  hers  and  told 
her  that  he  loved  her,  she  willingly  responded.  Their  troth 
was  plighted  beside  her  mother's  grave.  In  a  short  time 
Harriet  Westbrook  and  her  babies  were  deserted,  and  the 
lovers  fled  to  Switzerland,  The  nightmare  of  the  first  elope- 

219 


220  WTERATURE   OF  AW,   NATIONS. 

ment  had  been  Eliza  Westbrook,  Harriet's  sister,  who 
wandered  with  the  foolish  young  couple  and  tyrannized  over 
them.  The  nightmare  of  the  second  elopement  was  Jane 
Clermont  who,  at  Geneva,  became  Lord  Byron's  mistress,  was 
deserted  by  him,  and  with  her  child,  Allegra,  lived  on  Shelley's 
bounty  for  some  years.  "  Monk"  Lewis  joined  the  four  lovers 
during  this  curious  summer  of  1816,  and  the  whole  party 
lived  for  several  months  a  life  of  refined  Bohemianism.  While 
floating  on  Lake  Leman,  one  night,  the  conversation  turned, 
as  it  often  did,  on  the  mysterious  and  horrible.  Under  the 
spur  of  the  moment  each  promised  to  write  a  tale  of  wonder, 
during  the  following  year,  for  the  diversion  of  the  others. 
The  only  one  who  remembered  the  promise  was  Mary  God- 
win, who  wrote  one  of  the  strangest  romances  in  all  literature, 
the  incomparably  horrible  ' '  Frankenstein. ' '  She  was  not 
yet  eighteen. 

In  November,  Harriet  Westbrook  drowned  herself;  some 
say  because  of  her  husband's  desertion  ;  some  say  because  of 
an  unfortunate  love  affair  of  her  own.  In  six  weeks  Shelley 
married  Mary  Godwin,  his  father  settling  on  him  an  allow- 
ance of  £1000  a  year.  The  Chief  Justice  refused  him  pos- 
session of  his  children,  a  boy  and  a  girl,  who  continued  to 
live  with  their  grandfather  Westbrook ;  and  Shelley,  in  an 
excess  of  rage  against  all  existing  institutions,  left  England, 
with  his  wife,  forever. 

They  wandered  in  Italy  for  some  years,  meeting  Lord 
Byron  again,  and  finally  settled  in  Pisa.  There  the  generous 
poet  invited  Leigh  Hunt,  his  wife  and  children,  to  visit  him. 
This  was  the  fatal  summer  of  1821,  and  Shelley  was  only 
thirty  years  old.  His  own  family  was  at  Zarici,  on  the 
eastern  Riviera;  and  he  and  his  friend,  Captain  Williams, 
went  to  meet  and  welcome  the  strangers,  and  to  settle  them 
in  his  home  in  Pisa.  They  attempted  to  return,  in  their 
cockle-shell  boat,  across  the  Gulf  of  Spezia.  A  squall  arose, 
the  little  vessel  sank;  the  two  were  drowned;  and,  in  a 
week's  time,  the  sea  cast  up  its  dead.  Byron,  Hunt  and 
Captain  Trelawney  burned  Shelley's  body  with  heathen 
rites  and  incense,  and  quenched  the  fire  with  wine.  His 
ashes,  placed  in  an  urn,  repose  in  the  Protestant  Cemetery 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  221 

in  Rome.  Mrs.  Shelley  and  her  son  returned  to  England. 
The  latter,  Sir  Percy  Shelley,  became  a  typical  British  gen- 
tleman, conservative  and  order-loving,  a  partisan  of  Church 
and  State. 

'  *  Shelley  was  song  embodied.  He  poured  forth  miles  of 
verse  in  order  to  force  his  wild  politics  and  wilder  morals 
upon  the  world,  believing  that  this  was  his  mission,  to  con- 
vince men  that  their  God  was  a  Fiend  and  their  laws  ty- 
ranny/* His  poetry  is  sublime,  melodious,  and  enchanting; 
much  of  it  too  mystical  and  metaphysical  for  ordinary  minds; 
minds  that  delight  in  Scott's  stirring  verse,  and  Byron's  dis- 
tinct utterance.  "Alastor,"  "The  Revolt  of  Islam,"  the 
gloomy  "Cenci,"  the  grand  "  Prometheus,"  are  not  for  the 
crowd.  But  some  of  his  minor  utterances  are  music  itself : 
"The  Cloud,"  "  The  Skylark,"  The  Sensitive  Plant,"  "Lines 
written  in  Dejection,  near  Naples,"  "Darts  of  Epipsychidion," 
and  "The  Desire  of  the  Moth  for  the  Star." 

In  spite  of  what  Shelley  said  and  wrote,  and  even  the 
wrong  he  did,  he  was  one  of  earth's  rarest,  purest  spirits. 
He  was  slender  and  beautiful  as  a  flower,  romantic,  generous, 
loving ;  feeding  on  bread  and  fruits  ;  hating  sensuality  as  he 
hated  leprosy ;  loving  mankind  as  he  loved  his  own  soul ;  and 
striving  to  free  his  race  with  a  kind  of  useless,  heroic  mad- 
ness. The  best  of  his  verse  lives  in  the  minds  and  hearts  of 
those  who,  longing  to  relieve  and  release,  believe  that  it  can 
only  be  done  by  growth,  and  order,  and  law,  and  love. 

To  A  SKYLARK. 

HAIL  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest, 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire  ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest. 


222  UTERATURK  OF  AIJ,  NATIONS. 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun, 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening, 

Thou  dost  float  and  run ; 
Like  an  embodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight ; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven 

In  the  broad  daylight, 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight, 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 
Of  that  silver  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud ; 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 

From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  overflowed. 

What  thou  art  we  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  thee  ? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see, 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody — 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden, 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not : 

Like  a  highborn  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 

Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bower: 

Like  a  glowworm  golden 
In  a  dell  of  dew, 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  223 

Scattering  unbeholden 

Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which  screen  it  from  the  view : 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflowered, 

Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy-winge'd  thieves. 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awakened  flowers, 

All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass. 

Teach  me,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine : 
I  have  never  heard 

Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

Chorus  hymeneal, 

Or  triumphal  chaunt, 
Matched  with  thine  would  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt — 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains  ? 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain  ? 
What  love  of  thy  own  kind  ?    What  ignorance  of  pain  ? 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be : 
Shadow  of  annoyance 

Never  came  near  thee ; 
Thou  lovest ;  but  ne  er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 

Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 

Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream  ? 


224  LITERATURE   OF  Al^Iy  NATIONS. 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not ; 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught ; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest  thought. 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear, 
If  we  were  things  born 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground ! 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 

From  my  lips  would  flow, 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  listening  now. 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  225 


JOHN  KEATS. 

BYRON  was  a  ruined  peer, 
Shelley,  the  son  of  a  wealthy 
father,  the  scion  of  a  dis- 
tinguished house;  and  Keats, 
the  third  in  the  triad  of  roman- 
tic poets  of  the  early  century, 
was  poor  and  middle-class.  Lord 
Hough  ton,  his  biographer,  sums 
up  his  life  in  the  following 
sentence  :  "The  publication  of 
three  small  volumes  of  verse, 
some  earnest  friendships,  one 
profound  passion,  and  a  premature  death,  are  the  only  inci- 
dents in  his  career."  As  a  friend  of  Leigh  Hunt's  he  be- 
came intimate  with  Hunt's  associates,  Moore,  Byron,  Shelley, 
Lamb.  He  tried  to  be  a  surgeon,  and,  revolted,  by  the  hor- 
rors of  the  hospital  of  those  days,  when  anaesthetics  were 
unknown,  he  turned  to  his  imagination  for  relief ;  and  his 
imagination  was  Greek.  From  earliest  boyhood,  though  he 
never  studied  Greek,  he  had  fed  on  classic  mythology  and 
the  tales  of  Homer,  and  when  he  began  to  write  he  fled  for 
inspiration  to  ancient  Greece. 

His  "Endymion"  appeared  in  1818,  when  Keats  was  only 
twenty-three  years  old.  Blackwoocfs  Magazine  and  the 
Quarterly  attacked  him  with  such  brutality  that  when  he 
died  not  long  after,  it  was  commonly  supposed  that  the  Re- 
viewers had  killed  him.  Byron  says  of  him  with  cruel  levity, 
that  "  he  had  let  himself  be  snuffed  out  with  an  article." 
This  is  not  correct.  Keats  went  on  his  way  with  manly 
composure,  and,  for  answer,  straightway  published  another 
volume  of  verse. 

What  ailed  him  was  a  frail  body,  a  too  heroic  soul,  too 
burning  genius,  and  a  hopeless  love  affair.  He  was  engaged 
to  be  married  to  Miss  Fanny  Brawne,  whom  he  loved  with  a 
poet's  frenzy,  and  yet  did  not  quite  trust  her  love.  There 
was  nothing  ahead  of  him  but  poverty  and  struggle.  There 
ix— 15 


226  UTERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

was  consumption  in  his  family ;  distressing  pulmonary  symp- 
toms declared  themselves,  and  his  physicians  ordered  him 
south.  With  his  friend  Severn  he  sailed  for  Rome,  lingered 
painfully  for  a  few  months,  and  died  there  in  February,  1821, 
aged  twenty-five  years. 

England  found  in  spite  of  Blackwood  and  the  Quarterly 
that  she  had  lost  something  precious  and  unrivalled.  Keats 
wrote  but  little:  "Endymion,"  u  St.  Agnes'  Eve,"  "  Isabella," 
the  fragment  "Hyperion,"  "  Ode  to  a  Nightingale,"  "  On  a 
Grecian  Vase,"  "  Chapman's  Homer,"  and  a  few  others  ;  in- 
cluding his  last  pitiful  lines  on  shipboard,  when  watching, 
"  Nature's  Patient  Sleepless  Eremite,"  as  he  sailed  away  from 
all  he  loved.  Some  of  his  lines  have  a  matchless  grace,  an 
immortal  charm.  His  sad,  short  life,  his  melancholy  death, 
his  imperishable  verse  have  endeared  him  to  all  lovers  of  the 
beautiful  and  true. 


ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN. 

THOU  still  unravished  bride  of  quietness, 

Thou  foster-child  of  science  and  slow  time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme: 
What  leaf-fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape 

Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both, 
In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady  ? 

What  men  or  gods  are  these  ?     What  maidens  loth  ? 
What  mad  pursuit  ?     What  struggle  to  escape  ? 

What  pipes  and  timbrels  ?    What  wild  ecstasy  ? 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 

Are  sweeter  ;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on ; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endeared, 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone  ! 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave 

Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare ; 
Bold  lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss, 

Though  winning  near  the  goal — yet,  do  not  grieve  ; 
She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss, 

Forever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair ! 


ENGUSH   LITERATURE. 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs !  that  cannot  shed 

Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  spring  adieu ; 
And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied, 

Forever  piping  songs  forever  new : 
More  happy  love  !  more  happy,  happy  love  ! 

Forever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoyed, 
Forever  panting,  and  forever  young ; 

All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 
That  leaves  a  heart  high  sorrowful  and  cloyed, 

A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching  tongue. 


227 


Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice  ? 

To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest, 
I>adest  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 

And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands  drest  ? 
What  little  town  by  river  or  sea  shore, 

Or  mountain  built  with  peaceful  citadel, 
Is  emptied  of  this  folk,  this  pious  morn  ? 

And,  little  town,  thy  streets  forever  more 
Will  silent  be ;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell 

Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return. 

O  Attic  shape !    Fair  attitude  !  with  brede 
Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought, 

With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed  ; 
Thou,  silent  form,  dost  tease  us  out  of  thought 

As  doth  eternity.     Cold  Pastoral ! 
When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste, 


228  UTERATURE  OF  AM,  NATIONS. 

Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 

Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou  sayest, 
"Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty," — that  is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know. 

ON  FIRST  LOOKING  INTO  CHAPMAN'S  HOMER. 

MUCH  have  I  traveled  in  the  realms  of  gold, 

And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen ; 

Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 
Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told 

That  deep-browed  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne ; 

Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 
Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold : 
Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 

When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken  ; 
Or  like  stout  Cortez  when  with  eagle  eyes 

He  stared  at  the  Pacific — and  all  his  men 
Looked  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmiser- 

Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 

LEIGH  HUNT. 

LEIGH  HUNT  was  born  in  Southgate,  England,  in  1784. 
His  father,  a  clergyman,  was  the  son  of  an  English  clergy- 
man on  the  Island  of  Barbadoes,  and  was  sent  to  the  Uni- 
versity of  Pennsylvania  to  be  educated.  His  mother  was  a 
Philadelphia  woman.  Leigh  Hunt  was  brought  up  at  the 
celebrated  Christ  Hospital,  known  as  "Blue-coat  School," 
and  made  famous  by  Lamb  and  Coleridge.  Hunt  was  a 
Liberal  in  politics,  and  in  1808  he  and  his  brother  John 
assumed  the  editorship  of  a  paper  called  The  Examiner, 
which  became  noted  for  its  political  and  literary  independence. 
In  1813  it  published  a  trivial  satire  on  the  Prince  Regent, 
afterwards  George  IV.  The  gist  of  the  offence  seems  to  have 
been  that  the  prince  was  called  in  it,  u  An  Adonis  of  fifty,  a 
dandy  grown  fat."  For  this  impudence  the  two  brothers 
were  sentenced  to  two  years'  imprisonment  in  separate  jails. 
Leigh  Hunt  bore  his  confinement  with  cheerfulness  and 
gayety  ;  he  turned  his  cell  into  a  bower  of  loveliness  and  drew 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  229 

around  him  a  group  of  admiring  and  influential  friends — 
Byron,  Moore,  Brougham  and  others.  Afterwards  he  became 
acquainted  with  many  rising  young  men  of  the  time,  of 
liberal  sympathies,  among  whom  were  Lamb,  Shelley  and 
Keats. 

From  first  to  last  Leigh  Hunt  was  a  careless,  wasteful 
man  with  a  large  family  and  an  unthrifty  wife.  The  key- 
note of  his  life  was  iinpecuniosity.  He  borrowed  from  every 
one  he  knew  with  the  generous  recklessness  of  one  who 
would  gladly  give  as  much,  if  he  had  it  to  give.  Shelley 
tried  to  pull  him  out  of  the  slough  with  a  present  of  ^2000, 
but  in  vain.  The  crabbed  Carlyle  helped  him  constantly, 
after  his  own  success  was  assured.  Dickens  caricatured  him, 
as  Harold  Skirnpole,  in  "  Bleak  House."  Late  in  life  he  re- 
ceived an  annuity  from  Mrs.  Shelley  and  her  son,  and  a  pen- 
sion from  the  government.  The  two  sums  combined  gave 
him  a  comfortable  old  age.  He  died  in  1859. 

In  1816  Leigh  Hunt  published  his  longest  poem,  called 
"A  Story  of  Rimini."  In  this  he  imitated  the  sprightly 
Italian  style,  forsook  Pope's  stilted  epigrammatic  couplets, 
and  returned  to  the  fresh  versification  of  Chaucer.  The 
poem,  though  tragic  in  character,  is  animated  and  delightful 
in  spirit.  One  of  his  most  striking  poems  is  "JafFar."  The 
well  known  uAbou  Ben  Adhem"  is  meant  as  a  description 
of  Dickens.  A  graceful  stanza  dedicated  to  Mrs.  Carlyle 
begins,  "Jennie  Kissed  Me  When  We  Met"  The  poet  wrote 
an  abundance  of  miscellaneous  essays  and  criticisms :  "  A 
Jar  of  Honey  from  Mt.  Hybla,"  "  Men,  Women  and  Books," 
and  other  prose;  and  an  interesting  "Autobiography ,"  which 
gives  criticisms  and  portraits  of  many  of  his  contemporaries. 

Leigh  Hunt  was  a  kindly,  lovable  man,  full  of  vanity 
and  weakness,  and  his  books  display  his  personal  qualities. 
He  wrote  in  a  conversational  style,  and  delighted  to  take  his 
readers  into  his  confidence. 

FUNERAL  OF  THE  LOVERS. 

(From  "  A  Story  of  Rimini.") 
THE  days  were  then  at  close  of  autumn  still, 
A  little  rainy,  and,  towards  nightfall,  chill ; 


230  WTERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

There  was  a  fitful  moaning  air  abroad ; 

And  ever  and  anon,  over  the  road, 

The  last  few  leaves  came  fluttering  from  the  trees, 

Whose  trunks  now  thronged  to  sight,  in  dark  varieties. 

The  people,  who  from  reverence  kept  at  home, 

listened  till  afternoon  to  hear  them  come ; 

And  hour  on  hour  went  by,  and  naught  was  heard 

But  some  chance  horseman,  or  the  wind  that  stirred, 

Till  towards  the  vesper  hour ;  and  then  'twas  said 

Some  heard  a  voice,  which  seemed  as  if  it  read ; 

And  others  said  that  they  could  hear  a  sound 

Of  many  horses  trampling  the  moist  ground. 

Still  nothing  came — till  on  a  sudden,  just 

As  the  wind  opened  in  a  rising  gust, 

A  voice  of  chanting  rose,  and  as  it  spread, 

They  plainly  heard  the  anthem  for  the  dead. 

It  was  the  choristers  who  went  to  meet 

The  train,  and  now  were  entering  the  first  street. 

Then  turned  aside  that  city,  young  and  old, 

And  in  their  lifted  hands  the  gushing  sorrow  rolled. 

But  of  the  older  people,  few  could  bear 

To  keep  the  window,  when  the  train  drew  near ; 

And  all  felt  double  tenderness  to  see 

The  bier  approaching  slow  and  steadily, 

On  which  those  two  in  senseless  coldness  lay, 

Who  but  a  few  short  months — it  seemed  a  day — 

Had  left  their  walls,  lovely  in  form  and  mind, 

In  sunny  manhood  he — she  first  of  womankind. 

They  say  that  when  Duke  Guido  saw  them  come, 

He  clasped  his  hands,  and  looking  round  the  room, 

Lost  his  old  wits  for  ever.     From  the  morrow 

None  saw  him  after.     But  no  more  of  sorrow. 

On  that  same  night  those  lovers  silently 

Were  buried  in  one  grave  under  a  tree ; 

There,  side  by  side,  and  hand  in  hand,  they  lay 

In  the  green  ground ;  and  on  fine  nights  in  May 

Young  hearts  betrothed  used  to  go  there  to  pray. 

DEATH. 

DEATH  is  a  road  our  dearest  friends  have  gone : 
Why,  with  such  leaders,  fear  to  say,  "Lead  on  ?  " 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  231 

Its  gate  repels  lest  it  too  soon  be  tried, 

But  turns  in  balm  on  the  immortal  side. 

Mothers  have  passed  it;  fathers,  children,  men 

Whose  like  we  look  not  to  behold  again  ; 

Women  that  smiled  away  their  loving  breath ; 

Soft  is  the  traveling  on  the  road  of  Death ! 

But  guilt  has  passed  it ! — men  not  fit  to  die ! 

Oh,  hush — for  He  that  made  us  all  is  by ! 

Human  were  all — all  men,  all  born  of  mothers ; 

All  our  own  selves  in  the  worn-out  shape  of  others. 

Our  used,  and  oh,  be  sure,  not  to  be  ///-used  brothers. 

ABOU  BEN  ADHEM. 

ABOU  BEN  ADHEM  (may  his  tribe  increase  !) 
Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream  of  peace ; 
And  saw,  within  the  moonlight  in  his  room, 
Making  it  rich,  and  like  a  lily  in  bloom, 
An  angel,  writing  in  a  book  of  gold : 
Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Adhem  bold, 
And  to  the  presence  in  the  room  he  said, 
* '  What  writest  thou  ? ' '     The  vision  raised  its  head, 
And  with  a  look  made  of  all  sweet  accord, 
Answered,  "  The  names  of  those  who  love  the  Lord ! " 
"And  is  mine  one?"  said  Abou.     "Nay,  not  so," 
Replied  the  angel.     Abou  spake  more  low, 
But  cheerily  still ;  and  said,  ' '  I  pray  thee,  then, 
Write  me  as  one  that  loves  his  fellow-men." 

The  angel  wrote  and  vanished.     The  next  night 
It  came  again  with  a  great  wakening  light, 
And  showed  the  names  whom  love  of  God  had  blest, 
And  lo !  Ben  Adhem' s  name  led  all  the  rest. 

RONDEAU. 

JENNY  kissed  me  when  we  met, 

Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in ; 
Time,  you  thief,  who  love  to  get 

Sweets  into  your  list,  put  that  in : 
Say  I'm  weary,  say  I'm  sad, 

Say  that  health  and  wealth  have  missed  me, 
Say  I'm  growing  old,  but  add, 

Jenny  kissed  me. 


THOMAS  MOORE. 


As  the  friend  and  friendly  biographer  of 
Byron,  Moore  was  not  averse  to  having  their 
names  coupled  on  these  terms.  He  was  ap- 
parently content  with  his  flattering  popularity  as  the  associate 
with  and  the  lively  entertainer  of  eminent  people  and  aristo- 
cratic persons.  But  he  was  a  genuine  song-writer  and  a  poet, 
though  not  of  the  highest  class.  He  was  born  in  Dublin  in 
1779,  distinguished  himself  in  its  University  and  published 
his  Anacreontics  in  1800,  dedicated  to  the  Prince  of  Wales. 
This  social  success  in  translations  led  to  the  publication  of  a 
book  of  original  erotic  verse  entitled,  * c  Poetical  Works  of  the 
I^ate  Thomas  L,ittle,"  of  which,  when  found  out  and  con- 
victed, he  frankly  said  he  was  ashamed.  His  popularity 
gained  him  appointment  to  an  office  In  the  Bermudas,  which 
enabled  him  to  visit  America,  the  result  being  r,  volume  of 
"Odes  and  Epistles "  in  1806.  His  "Irish  M :lodies "  were 
and  always  will  be  extraordinarily  popular  in  the  best  sense. 
To  the  ancient  melodies,  arranged  by  Sir  John  Stevenson, 
Moore  wrote  his  charming  verses.  He  afterwards  did  the 
same  with  the  airs  of  other  nations,  but  with  less  success. 

In  1817  appeared  "Lalla  Rookh"  (Tulip-cheeked),  his 
principal  poem.  Though  Moore  had  no  personal  knowledge  of 
the  East  he  managed  by  careful  study  to  infuse  the  true  oriental 
spirit  into  this  romantic  tale  of  the  love  pilgrimage  of  Em- 
peror Aurungzebe's  beautiful  daughter.  The  entire  poem  is 
oppressively  rich  in  gorgeous  scenes  and  dazzling  imagery, 
but  has  many  passages  of  true  poetical  beauty,  simple  and 
striking.  After  this  Moore  visited  Paris,  and  in  his  "  Fudge 
Family  in  Paris'*  he  satirized  in  pungent  style  the  boorish 
manners  of  the  English  abroad.  He  did  constant  ser, 
232 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE  233 

vice  in  various  departments  of  journalism,  and  published  a 
number  of  clever  books  in  prose  and  verse,  which  were  col- 
lected into  a  uniform  edition  in  1842.  His  vivacious  and 
well-stored  mind  gave  way  some  years  before  his  death  in  1852. 

LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM. 

OH  !  the  days  are  gone,  when  Beauty  bright 

My  heart's  chain  wove; 
When  my  dream  of  life  from  morn  till  night 
Was  love,  still  love. 
New  hope  may  bloom, 
And  days  may  come 
Of  milder,  calmer  beam, 
But  there's  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life 

As  love's  young  dream : 
No,  there's  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life 
As  love's  young  dream. 

Though  the  bard  to  purer  fame  may  soar, 

When  wild  youth's  past; 
Though  he  win  the  wise,  who  frown' d  before, 
To  smile  at  last ; 
He'll  never  meet 
A  joy  so  sweet, 
In  all  his  noon  of  fame, 
As  when  first  he  sung  to  woman's  ear 

His  soul-felt  flame, 

And,  at  every  close,  she  blushed  to  hear 
The  one  loved  name. 

No — that  hallow' d  form  is  ne'er  forgot 

Which  first  love  traced ; 
Still  it  lingering  haunts  the  greenest  spot 
On  memory's  waste. 
'Twas  odor  fled 
As  soon  as  shed  ; 
'Twas  morning's  winged  dream; 
'Twas  a  light  that  ne'er  can  shine  again 

On  life's  dull  stream : 
Oh !  'twas  light  that  ne'er  can  shine  again 
On  life's  dull  stream. 


234  UTERATURE  OF  AI.I,  NATIONS. 


THE  VALE  OF  CASHMERE. 

(From  "  Italia  Rookh.") 

WHO  has  not  heard  of  the  Vale  of  Cashmere, 

With  its  roses  the  brightest  that  earth  ever  gave, 
Its  temples,  and  grottos,  and  fountains  as  clear 

As  the  love-lighted  eyes  that  hang  over  their  wave? 
Oh !  to  see  it  at  sunset — when  warm  o'er  the  Lake 

Its  splendor  at  parting  a  summer  eve  throws, 
I,ike  a  bride,  full  of  blushes,  when  ling' ring  to  take 

A  last  look  of  her  mirror  at  night  ere  she  goes ! 
When  the  shrines  through  the  foliage  are  gleaming  half  shown, 
And  each  hallows  the  hour  by  some  rites  of  its  own. 
Here  the  music  of  prayer  from  a  minaret  swells, 

Here  the  Magian  his  urn,  full  of  perfume,  is  swinging, 
And  here,  at  the  altar,  a  zone  of  sweet  bells 

Round  the  waist  of  some  fair  Indian  dancer  is  ringing. 
Or  to  see  it  by  moonlight — when  mellowly  shines 
The  light  o'er  its  palaces,  gardens,  and^shrines; 
When  the  water-falls  gleam;  like  a  quick  fall  of  stars, 
And  the  nightingale's  hymn  from  the  Isle  of  Chenars 
Is  broken  by  laughs  and  light  echoes  of  feet 
From  the  cool,  shining  walks  where  the  young  people 

meet — 

Or  at  morn,  when  the  magic  of  daylight  awakes 
A  new  wonder  each  minute,  as  slowly  it  breaks, 
Hills,  cupolas,  fountains,  called  forth  every  one 
Out  of  darkness,  as  if  but  just  born  of  the  Sun. 
When  the  Spirit  of  Fragrance  is  up  with  the  day, 
From  his  Haram  of  night-flowers  stealing  away ; 
And  the  wind,  full  of  wantonness,  woos  like  a  lover 
The  young  aspen-trees,  till  they  tremble  all  over. 
When  the  Bast  is  as  warm  as  the  light  of  first  hopes, 

And  Day,  with  his  banner  of  radiance  unfurled, 
Shines  in  through  the  mountainous  portal  that  opes, 

Sublime,  from  that  Valley  of  Bliss  to  the  world ! 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  235 

THE  TEMPLE  OF  Isis. 

(From  "  The  Epicurean.") 

ALCIPHRON,  a  young  Athenian,  being  chosen  chief  of  the  Epicu- 
reans, in  257  A.D.,  went  to  Egypt  to  learn  wisdom  from  the  priests. 
By  some  strange  adventures  he  became  acquainted  with  Alethe,  who 
though  brought  up  as  a  priestess  of  Isis,  was  really  a  Christian,  imper. 
fectly  taught. 

The  rising  of  the  Moon,  slow  and  majestic,  as  if  conscious 
of  the  honors  that  awaited  her  upon  earth,  was  welcomed 
with  a  loud  acclaim  from  every  eminence,  where  multitudes 
stood  watching  for  her  first  light.  And  seldom  had  she  risen 
upon  a  scene  more  beautiful.  Memphis — still  grand,  though 
no  longer  the  unrivaled  Memphis,  that  had  borne  away  from 
Thebes  the  crown  of  supremacy,  and  worn  it  undisputed 
through  so  many  centuries, — now  softened  by  the  moonlight 
that  harmonized  with  her  decline,  shone  forth  among  her 
lakes,  her  pyramids,  and  her  shrines,  like  a  dream  of  glory 
that  was  soon  ^to  pass  away.  Ruin,  even  now,  was  but  too 
visible  around  her.  The  sands  of  the  Libyan  desert  gained 
upon  her  like  a  sea ;  and,  among  solitary  columns  and 
sphinxes,  she  was  already  half  sunk  from  sight.  Time 
seemed  to  stand  waiting,  till  all,  that  now  flourished  around 
should  fall  beneath  his  desolating  hand,  like  the  rest. 

On  the  waters  all  was  life  and  gaiety.  As  far  as  eye  could 
reach,  the  lights  of  innumerable  boats  were  seen,  studding, 
like  rubies,  the  surface  of  the  stream.  Vessels  of  all  kinds, 
— from  the  light  coracle,  built  for  shooting  down  the  cata- 
racts to  the  large  yacht  that  glides  to  the  sound  of  flutes, — all 
were  afloat  for  this  sacred  festival,  filled  with  crowds  of  the 
young  and  gay,  not  only  from  Memphis  and  Babylon,  but 
from  cities  still  farther  removed  from  the  scene. 

As  I  approached  the  island,  I  could  see,  glittering  through 
the  trees  on  the  bank,  the  lamps  of  the  pilgrims  hastening 
to  the  ceremony.  Landing  in  the  direction  which  those 
lights  pointed  out,  I  soon  joined  the  crowd ;  and,  passing 
through  a  long  alley  of  sphinxes,  whose  spangling  marble 
shone  out  from  the  dark  sycamores  around  them,  in  a  short 


23  LITERATURE  OF  AIA  NATIONS. 

time  reached  the  grand  vestibule  of  the   temple,   where   1 
found  the  ceremonies  of  the  evening  already  commenced. 

In  this  vast  hall,  which  was  surrounded  by  a  double 
range  of  columns,  and  lay  open  over-head  to  the  stars  of 
heaven,  I  saw  a  group  of  young  maidens,  moving  in  a  sort  of 
measured  step,  between  walk  and  dance,  round  a  small  shrine, 
upon  which  stood  one  of  those  sacred  birds,  that,  on  account 
of  the  variegated  color  of  their  wings,  are  dedicated  to  the 
moon.  The  vestibule  was  dimly  lighted, — there  being  but 
one  lamp  of  naphtha  on  each  of  the  great  pillars  that  encir- 
cled it.  But,  having  taken  my  station  beside  one  of  those 
pillars,  I  had  a  distinct  view  of  the  young  dancers,  as  in  suc- 
cession they  passed  me. 

Their  long  graceful  drapery  was  as  white  as  snow;  and 
each  wore  loosely,  beneath  the  rounded  bosom,  a  dark-blue 
zone,  or  bandlet,  studded,  like  the  skies  at  midnight,  with 
little  silver  stars.  Through  their  dark  locks  was  wreathed 
the  white  lily  of  the  Nile, — that  flower  being  accounted  as 
welcome  to  the  moon,  as  the  golden  blossoms  of  the  bean- 
flower  are  to  the  sun.  As  they  passed  under  the  lamp,  a 
gleam  of  light  flashed  from  their  bosoms,  which,  I  could 
perceive,  was  the  reflection  of  a  small  mirror,  that,  in  the 
manner  of  the  women  of  the  East,  each  wore  beneath  her  left 
shoulder. 

There  was  no  music  to  regulate  their  steps  ;  but,  as  they 
gracefully  went  round  the  bird  on  the  shrine,  some,  by  the 
beat  of  the  castanet,  some  by  the  shrill  ring  of  the  sistrum, — 
which  they  held  uplifted  in  the  attitude  of  their  own  divine 
Isis — harmoniously  timed  the  cadence  of  their  feet ;  while 
others,  at  every  step,  shook  a  small  chain  of  silver,  whose 
sound,  mingling  with  those  of  the  castanets  and  sistrums, 
produced  a  wild,  but  not  unpleasing  harmony. 

They  seemed  all  lovely;  but  there  was  one — whose  face  the 
light  had  not  yet  reached,  so  downcast  she  held  it — who  at- 
tracted, and,  at  length,  riveted  all  my  attention.  I  knew  not 
why,  but  there  was  a  something  in  those  half-seen  features — a 
charm  in  the  very  shadow,  that  hung  over  their  imagined  beauty, 
— which  took  me  more  than  all  the  out-shining  loveliness  of  her 
companions.  So  enchained  was  my  fancy  by  this  coy  mys- 


THE  PlU&STESS    OF  ISIS. 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  237 

tery,  that  her  alone,  of  all  the  group,  could  I  either  see  or 
think  of— her  alone  I  watched,  as,  with  the  same  downcast 
brow,  she  glided  round  the  altar,  gently  and  aerially,  as  if  her 
presence,  like  that  of  a  spirit,  was  something  to  be  felt,  not 
seen. 

Suddenly,  while  I  gazed,  the  loud  crash  of  a  thousand 
cymbals  was  heard  ; — the  massy  gates  of  the  Temple  flew 
open,  as  the  illuminated  aisle  filled  the  whole  vestibule ; 
while,  at  the  same  instant,  as  if  the  light  and  the  sounds  were 
borne  together,  a  peal  of  rich  harmony  came  mingling  with 
the  radiance. 

It  was  then, — by  that  light,  which  shone  full  upon  the 
young  maiden's  features,  as,  starting  at  the  blaze,  she  raised 
her  eyes  to  the  portal,  and,  as  suddenly,  let  fall  their  lids 
again, — it  was  then  I  beheld,  what  even  my  own  ardent 
imagination,  in  its  most  vivid  dreams  of  beauty,  had  never 
pictured.  Not  Psyche  herself,  when  pausing  on  the  threshold 
of  heaven,  while  its  first  glories  fell  on  her  dazzled  lids,  could 
have  looked  more  beautiful,  or  blushed  with  a  more  innocent 
shame.  Often  as  I  had  felt  the  power  of  looks,  none  had  ever 
entered  into  my  soul  so  far.  It  was  a  new  feeling — a  new  sense 
— coming  as  suddenly  as  that  radiance  into  the  vestibule,  and, 
at  once,  filling  my  whole  being ; — and  had  that  vision  but  lin- 
gered another  moment  before  my  eyes,  I  should  have  wholly 
forgotten  who  I  was  and  where,  and  thrown  myself,  in  pros- 
trate adoration,  at  her  feet. 

But  scarcely  had  that  gush  of  harmony  been  heard,  when 
the  sacred  bird,  which  had,  till  now,  stood  motionless  as  an 
image,  expanded  his  wings,  and  flew  into  the  Temple ;  while 
his  graceful  young  worshippers,  with  a  fleetness  like  his  own, 
followed, — and  she,  who  had  left  a  dream  in  my  heart  never 
to  be  forgotten,  vanished  with  the  rest.  As  she  went  rapidly 
past  the  pillar  against  which  I  leaned,  the  ivy  that  encircled 
it  caught  in  her  drapery,  and  disengaged  some  ornament 
which  fell  to  the  ground.  It  was  the  small  mirror  which  I 
had  seen  shining  on  her  bosom.  Hastily  and  tremulously  I 
picked  it  up,  and  hurried  to  restore  it; — but  she  was  already 
lost  to  my  eyes  in  the  crowd. 

In  vain  I  tried  to  follow; — the  aisles  were  already  filled. 


238  LITERATURE  OF  AM,  NATIONS. 

and  numbers  of  eager  pilgrims  pressed  towards  the  portal. 
But  the  servants  of  the  Temple  prevented  all  further  entrance, 
and  still,  as  I  presented  myself,  their  white  wands  barred  the 
way.  Perplexed  and  irritated  amid  that  crowd  of  faces, 
regarding  all  as  enemies  that  impeded  my  progress,  I  stood  on 
tiptoe,  gazing  into  the  busy  aisles,  and  with  a  heart  beating 
as  I  caught,  from  time  to  time,  a  glimpse  of  some  spangled 
zone,  or  lotus  wreath,  which  led  me  to  fancy  that  I  had  dis- 
covered the  object  of  my  search.  But  it  was  all  in  vain  ; — in 
every  direction,  files  of  sacred  nymphs  were  moving,  but  no- 
where could  I  see  her,  whom  alone  I  sought. 

In  this  state  of  breathless  agitation  did  I  stand  for  some 
time, — bewildered  with  the  confusion  of  faces  and  lights,  as 
well  as  with  the  clouds  of  incense  that  rolled  around  me, — 
till,  fevered  and  impatient,  I  could  endure  it  no  longer. 
Forcing  my  way  out  of  the  vestibule  into  the  cool  air,  I  hur- 
ried back  through  the  alley  of  sphinxes  to  the  shore  and 
flung  myself  into  the  boat. 


CHARLES  LAMB. 

IN  the  history  of  English  literature  there  is  no  more  gentle 
or  lovable  spirit  than  Charles  Lamb.  His  life  was  a  tragedy 
relieved  only  by  his  own  genial  humor.  His  style  was  born 
of  a  quaint  and  original  character,  and  he  stamped  upon  all 
that  he  wrote  the  vivid  impression  of  his  own  rare  individu- 
ality. He  was  the  son  of  a  lawyer's  clerk  in  the  Inner  Tem- 
ple, and  was  born  in  London  in  1775.  He  was  educated  as  a 
blue-coat  charity  boy  in  the  famous  school  of  Christ  Hos- 
pital, where  he  had  Coleridge  as  a  companion.  In  1792,  he 
obtained  a  position  in  the  accountant's  office  of  the  East 
India  Company,  with  whom  he  remained  in  a  clerical  posi- 
tion for  thirty-five  years,  when  he  was  retired  upon  a  pension 
ample  for  his  simple  needs.  While  his  public  life  was  un- 
eventful his  private  life  was  altered  and  saddened  by  a  fright- 
ful calamity.  His  well-loved  sister  Mary  stabbed  her  own 
mother  to  death  during  an  outbreak  of  insanity.  This  oc- 
curred in  1 796.  For  a  time  Mary  was  confined  to  an  asylum, 
but  the  fit  passing  off,  she  was  released  on  her  brother  giving 
a  solemn  promise  to  watch  over  her  during  life.  How  faith- 
fully he  kept  this  promise  has  become  a  matter  of  literary 
history.  For  the  sake  of  his  sister,  Lamb  gave  up  the 
brighter  prospects  of  life,  and  abandoned,  it  is  thought,  a  love 
which  he  had  conceived  for  a  young  lady  who  is  apparently 
alluded  to  in  his  essays  under  the  designation  of  Alice  W. 

239 


240  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

The  history  of  the  long  association  between  brother  and 
sister,  broken  from  time  to  time  by  fresh  outbreaks  of  the 
fatal  malady,  is  one  of  the  most  touching  things  in  fact  or 
fiction.  She  was  never  allowed  to  know  the  dreadful  act  she 
had  committed.  Even  after  Lamb's  death,  his  friend  Talfourd 
wrote  his  biography  without  mentioning  the  fact,  but  after 
her  death  made  the  necessary  additions  and  corrections. 

Lamb  began  his  literary  career  in  1797  as  a  poet  in  con- 
junction with  his  friends,  Coleridge  and  Lloyd,  their  three 
names  appearing  conjointly  on  a  volume  of  poems.  His 
poems  are  rather  evidences  of  a  fine  poetic  sensibility  than 
achievements  of  poetic  power.  His  reputation  must  always 
rest  upon  his  immortal  "  Essays  of  Elia."  These  originally 
appeared  in  the  London  Magazine,  and  were  reprinted  in 
1823.  They  are  marvels  of  terseness  of  treatment  and  nicety 
of  expression.  They  combine  acuteness  of  observation  with  a 
quaintness  derived  from  old  English  writers.  His  other 
works  are  "  Rosamond  Grey,"  a  tale,  "John  Wood vill,"  a 
tragedy;  u Tales  from  Shakespeare,"  and  "The  Adventures 
of  Ulysses."  In  the  preparation  of  the  two  latter  books, 
which  were  intended  for  children,  he  was  assisted  by  his  sister 
Mary.  Readers  of  the  English  dramatists  are  indebted  to 
him  for  rescuing  from  neglect  dramatic  writers  of  the  Shake- 
spearean age  in  his  admirable  work,  "  Specimens  of  English 
Dramatic  Poets,  who  Lived  about  the  Time  of  Shakespeare, 
with  Notes,  &c." 

Lamb  died  in  1834;  his  sister  survived  until  1847.  The 
special  characteristic  of  his  mind  was  humor,  and  his  dis- 
tinguishing taste  was  for  the  old  and  quaint  in  places,  books 
and  men.  His  puns  were  confined  to  his  talk  and  his  letters. 

SCOTCHMEN. 

(From  "Imperfect  Sympathies,"  in  the  "Essays  of  Elia.") 
I  HAVE  been  trying  all  my  life  to  like  Scotchmen,  and  am 
obliged  to  desist  from  the  experiment  in  despair.  They  can- 
not like  me — and,  in  truth,  I  never  knew  one  of  that  nation 
who  attempted  to  do  it.  There  is  something  more  plain  and 
ingenuous  in  their  mode  of  proceeding.  We  know  one  an- 
other at  first  sight. 


ENGLISH   LITER ATURK.  241 

There  is  an  order  of  imperfect  intellects  (under  which 
mine  must  be  content  to  rank)  which  in  its  constitution  is 
essentially  anti-Caledonian.  The  owners  of  the  sort  of  fac- 
ulties I  allude  to,  have  minds  rather  suggestive  than  compre- 
hensive. They  have  no  pretences  to  much  clearness  or 
precision  in  their  ideas,  or  in  their  manner  of  expressing 
them.  Their  intellectual  wardrobe  (to  confess  fairly)  has  few 
whole  pieces  in  it.  They  are  content  with  fragments  and 
scattered  pieces  of  Truth.  She  presents  no  full  front  to  them 
— a  feature  or  side-face  at  the  most.  Hints  and  glimpses, 
germs  and  crude  essays  at  a  system,  is  the  utmost  they  pretend 
to.  They  beat  up  a  little  game  peradventure — and  leave  it 
to  knottier  heads,  more  robust  constitutions,  to  run  it  down. 
The  light  that  lights  them  is  not  steady  and  polar,  but 
mutable  and  shifting ;  waxing,  and  again  waning.  Their 
conversation  is  accordingly.  They  will  throw  out  a  random 
word  in  or  out  of  season,  and  be  content  to  let  it  pass  for  what 
it  is  worth.  They  cannot  speak  always  as  if  they  were  upon 
their  oath — but  must  be  understood,  speaking  or  writing, 
with  some  abatement.  They  seldom  wait  to  mature  a  propo- 
sition, but  e'en  bring  it  to  market  in  the  green  ear.  They 
delight  to  impart  their  defective  discoveries  as  they  arise, 
without  waiting  for  their  full  development.  They  are  no 
systematizers,  and  would  but  err  more  by  attempting  it 
Their  minds,  as  I  said  before,  are  suggestive  merely. 

The  brain  of  a  true  Caledonian  (if  I  am  not  mistaken)  is 
constituted  upon  quite  a  different  plan.  His  Minerva  is  born 
in  panoply.  You  are  never  admitted  to  see  his  ideas  in  their 
growth — i£  indeed,  they  do  grow,  and  are  not  rather  put 
together  upon  principles  of  clock-work.  You  never  catch 
his  mind  in  an  undress.  He  never  hints  or  suggests  any 
thing,  but  unlades  his  stock  of  ideas  in  perfect  order  and 
completeness.  He  brings  his  total  wealth  into  company,  and 
gravely  unpacks  it.  His  riches  are  always  about  him.  He 
never  stoops  to  catch  a  glittering  something  in  your  presence 
to  share  it  with  you,  before  he  quite  knows  whether  it  be  true 
touch  or  not.  You  cannot  cry  halves  to  anything  that  he 
finds.  He  does  not  find,  but  bring.  You  never  witness  his 
first  apprehension  of  a  thing.  His  understanding  is  always 
ix— 16 


242  WTERAT URB  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

at  its  meridian — you  never  see  the  first  dawn,  the  early  streaks. 
He  has  no  falterings  of  self-suspicion.  Surmises,  guesses, 
misgivings,  half-intuitions,  semi-consciousnesses,  partial  illu- 
minations, dim  instincts,  embryo  conceptions,  have  no  place 
in  his  brain  or  vocabulary.  The  twilight  of  dubiety  never 
falls  upon  him.  Is  he  orthodox — he  has  no  doubts.  Is  he  an 
infidel — he  has  none  either.  Between  the  affirmative  and  the 
negative  there  is  no  borderland  with  him.  You  cannot  hover 
with  him  upon  the  confines  of  truth,  or  wander  in  the  maze 
of  a  probable  argument.  He  always  keeps  the  path.  You 
cannot  make  excursions  with  him — for  he  sets  you  right. 
His  taste  never  fluctuates.  His  morality  never  abates.  He 
cannot  compromise,  or  understand  middle  actions.  There 
can  be  but  a  right  and  a  wrong.  His  conversation  is  as  a  book. 
His  affirmations  have  the  sanctity  of  an  oath.  You  must 
speak  upon  the  square  with  him.  He  stops  a  metaphor  like 
a  suspected  person  in  an  enemy's  country.  u  A  healthy 
book  ?' '  said  one  of  his  countrymen  to  me,  who  had  ventured 
to  give  that  appellation  to  "John  Buncle," — "  did  I  catch 
rightly  what  you  said  ?  I  have  heard  of  a  man  in  health, 
and  of  a  healthy  state  of  body,  but  I  do  not  see  how  that 
epithet  can  be  properly  applied  to  a  book." 

Above  all,  you  must  beware  of  indirect  expressions  be- 
fore a  Caledonian.  Clap  an  extinguisher  upon  your  irony, 
if  you  are  unhappily  blessed  with  a  vein  of  it.  Remember 
you  are  upon  your  oath.  I  have  a  print  of  a  graceful  female 

after  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  which  I  was  showing  off  to  Mr. . 

After  he  had  examined  it  minutely,  I  ventured  to  ask  him 
how  he  liked  MY  BEAUTY  (a  foolish  name  it  goes  by  among 
my  friends) — when  he  very  gravely  assured  me,  that  "  he  had 
considerable  respect  for  my  character  and  talents"  (so  he  was 
pleased  to  say),  ' ( but  had  not  given  himself  much  thought 
about  the  degree  of  my  personal  pretensions.' '  The  miscon- 
ception staggered  me,  but  did  not  seem  much  to  disconcert 
him.  Persons  of  this  nation  are  particularly  fond  of  affirm- 
ing a  truth — which  nobody  doubts.  They  do  not  so  properly 
affirm,  as  annunciate  it.  They  do  indeed  appear  to  have  such 
a  love  for  truth  (as  if,  like  virtue,  it  were  valuable  for  itself ) 
tfaat  all  truth  becomes  equally  valuable,  whether  the  propo- 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  243 

sition  that  contains  it  be  new  or  old,  disputed,  or  such  as  is 
impossible  to  become  a  subject  of  disputation.  I  was  present 
not  long  since  at  a  party  of  North  Britons,  where  a  son  of 
Burns  was  expected  ;  and  happened  to  drop  a  silly  expression 
(in  my  South  British  way)  that  I  wished  it  were  the  father 
instead  of  the  son— when  four  of  them  started  up  at  once  to 
inform  me,  that  "that  was  impossible,  because  he  was  dead." 
An  impracticable  wish,  it  seems,  was  more  than  they  could 
conceive. 

The  tediousness  of  these  people  is  certainly  provoking.  I 
wonder  if  they  ever  tire  one  another?  In  my  early  life  I  had 
a  passionate  fondness  for  the  poetry  of  Burns.  I  have  some- 
times foolishly  hoped  to  ingratiate  myself  with  his  country- 
men by  expressing  it.  But  I  have  always  found  that  a  true 
Scot  resents  your  admiration  of  his  compatriot,  even  more 
than  he  would  your  contempt  of  him.  The  latter  he  imputes 
to  your  *  '  imperfect  acquaintance  with  many  of  the  words 
which  he  uses ;"  and  the  same  objection  makes  it  a  presump- 
tion in  you  to  suppose  that  you  can  admire  him.  Thomson 
they  seem  to  have  forgotten.  Smollett  they  have  neither  for- 
gotten nor  forgiven,  for  his  delineation  of  Rory  and  his  com- 
panion, upon  their  first  introduction  to  our  metropolis.  Speak 
of  Smollett  as  a  great  genius,  and  they  will  retort  upon  you 
Hume's  History  compared  with  his  continuation  of  it.  What 
if  the  historian  had  continued  Humphrey  Clinker  ? 

MRS.  BATTLE'S  OPINIONS  ON  WHIST. 

"A  CLEAR  fire,  a  clean  hearth,  and  the  rigor  of  the  game." 
This  was  the  celebrated  wish  of  old  Sarah  Battle  (now  with 
God),  who,  next  to  her  devotions,  loved  a  good  game  of  whist. 
She  was  none  of  your  lukewarm  gamesters,  your  half-and-half 
players,  who  have  no  objection  to  take  a  hand,  if  you  want 
one  to  make  up  a  rubber;  who  affirm  that  they  have  no 
pleasure  in  winning ;  that  they  like  to  win  one  game  and  lose 
another ;  that  they  can  while  away  an  hour  very  agreeably  at 
a  card-table,  but  are  indifferent  whether  they  play  or  no ;  and 
will  desire  an  adversary,  who  has  slipped  a  wrong  card,  to 
take  it  up  and  play  another.  These  insufferable  triflers  are 


*44  UTERATURE  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

the  curse  of  a  table.  One  of  these  flies  will  spoil  a  whole  pot 
Of  such  it  may  be  said  that  they  do  not  play  at  cards,  but 
only  play  at  playing  at  them. 

Sarah  Battle  was  none  of  that  breed.  She  detested  them, 
as  I  do,  from  her  heart  and  soul,  and  would  not,  save  upon  a 
striking  emergency,  willingly  seat  herself  at  the  same  table 
with  them.  She  loved  a  thorough-paced  partner,  a  determined 
enemy.  She  took,  and  gave,  no  concessions.  She  hated 
favors.  She  never  made  a  revoke,  nor  ever  passed  it  over  in 
her  adversary  without  exacting  the  utmost  forfeiture.  She 
fought  a  good  fight :  cut  and  thrust.  She  held  not  her  good 
sword  (her  cards)  "like  a  dancer.' >  She  sate  bold  upright; 
and  neither  showed  you  her  cards,  nor  desired  to  see  yours. 
All  people  have  their  blind  side — their  superstitions ;  and  I 
have  heard  her  declare,  under  the  rose,  that  hearts  was  her 
favorite  suit. 

I  never  in  my  life — and  I  knew  Sarah  Battle  many  of  the 
best  years  of  it — saw  her  take  out  her  snuff-box  when  it  was 
her  turn  to  play ;  or  snuff  a  candle  in  the  middle  of  a  game ; 
or  ring  for  a  servant,  till  it  was  fairly  over.  She  never  intro- 
duced, or  connived  at,  miscellaneous  conversation  during  its 
process.  As  she  emphatically  observed,  cards  were  cards; 
and  if  I  ever  saw  unrningled  distaste  in  her  fine  last-century 
countenance,  it  was  at  the  airs  of  a  young  gentleman  of  a 
literary  turn,  who  had  been  with  difficulty  persuaded  to  take 
a  hand ;  and  who,  in  his  excess  of  candor,  declared,  that  he 
thought  there  was  no  harm  in  unbending  the  mind  now  and 
then,  after  serious  studies,  in  recreations  of  that  kind !  She 
could  not  bear  to  have  her  noble  occupation,  to  which  she 
wound  up  her  faculties,  considered  in  that  light.  It  was  her 
business,  her  duty,  the  thing  she  came  into  the  world  to  do, — 
and  she  did  it.  She  unbent  her  mind  afterwards  over  a  book. 

HESTER. 

WHEN  maidens  such  as  Hester  die, 
Their  place  ye  may  lot  veil  supply, 
Though  ye  among  a  thousand  try, 

With  vain  endeavor. 
A  month  or  more  she  hath  been  dead, 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  24-5 

Yet  cannot  I  by  force  be  led 
To  think  upon  the  wormy  bed 

And  her  together. 
A  springy  motion  in  her  gait, 
A  rising  step,  did  indicate 
Of  pride  and  joy  no  common  rate, 

That  flushed  her  spirit. 
I  know  not  by  what  name  beside 
I  shall  it  call : — if  'twas  not  pride, 
It  was  a  joy  to  that  allied, 

She  did  inherit. 

Her  parents  held  the  Quaker  rule, 
Which  doth  the  human  feeling  cool ; 
But  she  was  trained  in  Nature's  school; 

Nature  had  blest  her. 
A  waking  eye,  a  prying  mind, 
A  heart  that  stirs,  is  hard  to  bind, 
A  hawk's  keen  sight  ye  cannot  blind, 

Ye  could  not  Hester. 
My  sprightly  neighbor !  gone  before 
To  that  unknown  and  silent  shore, 
Shall  we  not  meet,  as  heretofore, 

Some  summer  morning, 
When  from  thy  cheerful  eyes  a  ray 
Hath  struck  a  bliss  upon  the  day, 
A  bliss  that  would  not  go  away, 

A  sweet  fore-warning  ? 


THE  OLD  FAMILIAR  FACES. 

I  HAVE  had  playmates,  I  have  had  companions, 
In  my  days  of  childhood,  in  my  joyful  school-days; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  been  laughing,  I  have  been  carousing, 
Drinking  late,  sitting  late,  with  my  bosom  cronies ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  loved  a  love  once,  fairest  among  women  ; 
Closed  are  her  doors  on  me,  I  must  not  see  her ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 


246  U14RATURE  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

I  have  a  friend,  a  kinder  friend  has  no  man ; 
Like  an  ingrate  I  left  iny  friend  abruptly ; 
I^eft  him,  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Ghost-like  I  paced  round  the  haunts  of  my  childhood , 
Earth  seemed  a  desert  I  was  bound  to  traverse, 
Seeking  to  find  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Friend  of  my  bosom,  thou  more  than  a  brother, 
Why  wert  not  thou  born  in  my  father's  dwelling? 
So  might  we  talk  of  the  old  familiar  faces — 

How  some  they  have  died,  and  some  they  have  left  me, 
And  some  are  taken  from  me ;  all  are  departed ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

THE  FAMILY  NAME. 

WHAT  reason  first  imposed  thee,  gentle  name, 
Name  that  my  father  bore,  and  his  sire's  sire, 
Without  reproach  ?  we  trace  our  stream  no  higher ; 
And  I,  a  childless  man,  may  end  the  same. 
Perchance  some  shepherd  on  I^incolnian  plains, 
In  manners  guileless  as  his  own  sweet  flocks, 
Received  thee  first  amid  the  merry  mocks 
And  arch  illusions  of  his  fellow-swains. 
Perchance  from  Salem' s  holier  fields  returned, 
With  glory  gotten  on  the  heads  abhorred 
Of  faithless  Saracens,  some  martial  lord 
Took  His  meek  title,  in  whose  zeal  he  burned. 
Whate'er  the  font  whence  thy  beginnings  came, 
No  deed  of  mine  shall  shame  thee,  gentle  name. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR 
COLERIDGE. 

EMINENT  above  most  as  poet,  literary  expounder,  philo- 
sopher, and  converser,  Coleridge  is  greatest  as  an  influence. 
It  welled  from  everything  he  produced,  and  how  potent  and 
widespread  that  influence  has  been  can  only  be  understood 
after  a  thoughtful  survey  of  the  higher  literature  and  oral 
teaching  since  his  day.  Born  in  1772,  he  was  a  schoolmate 
of  Charles  Lamb  in  the  Charterhouse,  thence  he  went  to 
Cambridge,  to  study  everything,  from  the  political  pamphlets 
of  Burke  to  the  Greek  classics.  His  adoption  of  Unitarian 
doctrine  and  sundry  pecuniary  worries  led  to  college  troubles 
which  he  solved  by  suddenly  enlisting  in  the  army.  Bought 
out  by  some  friends,  he  returned  to  the  university,  but  left 
without  graduating  in  1794.  Then  it  was  that  his  friend 
Southey  espoused  his  fantastic  "  pantisocracy  n  scheme,  which 
was  to  found  an  earthly  paradise  on  the  banks  of  the  Susque- 
hanna,  which  was  selected  in  blank  ignorance  of  everything 
except  the  melodious  charm  of  its  name.  When  in  a  few 
months  the  fairy  bubble  burst,  the  pair  of  poet-souls  married 
sisters,  Southey  keeping  it  secret  until  he  returned  from 
foreign  travel,  Coleridge  settling  down  to  domestic  life  near 
Bristol.  He  lectured,  with  scant  success,  published  "  Ad- 
dresses to  the  People, "  on  political  topics,  strongly  radical  in 
sentiment,  and  had  hard  work  to  earn  a  living.  A  chance 
meeting  with  Wordsworth  and  his  sister  Dorothy  proved  the 
beginning  of  a  life-long  friendship.  Together  they  issued 

247 


248  WTERATURE  OP  AIJ,  NATIONS. 

the  famous  volume  of  "Lyrical  Ballads,"  1798,  from  which 
their  own  frme  dates.  Coleridge's  sole,  but  sufficient  con- 
tribution to  this  book  was  "The  Ancient  Mariner." 

Coleridge  had  meantime  become  a  Unitarian  preacher,  un- 
appreciated by  congregations,  had  issued  u  Juvenile  Poems," 
and  started  a  paper,  The  Watchman,  which  died  in  two 
months.  The  success  of  the  "  Ballads"  and  the  annuity  con- 
ferred on  him  by  admiring  friends  enabled  him  to  spend  a 
year  in  Germany.  On  his  return  he  published  his  transla- 
tion of  Schiller's  "  Wallenstein "  and  took  up  his  abode  in 
the  house  of  Southey.  His  revolutionary  sentiments  were  ex- 
changed for  ardent  loyalty,  and  his  Unitarianism  for  the  or- 
thodox faith.  Twenty-seven  numbers  of  his  new  periodical, 
The  Friend,  were  brought  out  at  this  time,  and  his  lectures 
on  Shakespeare  and  other  subjects  made  a  deep  impression. 

But  Coleridge  had  succumbed  to  the  charm  of  opium, 
audits  terrible  traces  are  seen  in  the  "  Ode  to  Dejection" 
and  other  poems  and  essays.  Physically  its  influence  was  de- 
plorable. Painful  domestic  troubles  and  alienations  of  friend- 
ship followed  the  rest  of  his  life.  Southey  generously  housed 
his  family,  from  whom  he  was  finally  estranged.  From 
1816,  till  his  death  in  1834,  he  lived  as  the  guest  of  Dr. 
Gillman  at  Highgate,  London,  where  he  was  the  high 
priest,  if  not  the  divinity,  of  a  devoted  band  who  gathered  to 
hear  his  marvellous  conversation.  It  was  monologue  rather 
than  talk,  as  the  anecdote  indicates.  Coleridge  asked  Lamb, 
"Have  you  ever  heard  me  preach?"  "I  never  heard  you 
do  anything  else  !"  was  Lamb's  reply.  In  his  later  years 
Coleridge  issued  his  best  prose  book,  the  "Aids  to  Reflection," 
with  other  philosophical  writings  of  exceptional  worth.  In 
his  lectures  on  Shakespeare  he  brought  the  full  force  and 
depth  of  the  poet's  genius  before  the  public  mind  as  no  other 
English  commentator  had  done.  In  short,  Coleridge  had  be- 
come a  mighty  influence  upon  the  most  thoughtful  of  his 
countrymen. 

As  a  critic  of  poetry  he  holds  the  sceptre  by  common  con- 
sent, having  fixed  canons  of  appreciation  which  were  not  re- 
cognized until  he  codified  them.  His  own  work  rises  in  its 
best  examples  to  the  criterion  he  established.  Imagination 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  249 

soars  to  lofty  heights  as  melodiously  as  the  song  flight  of  the 
lark  "  from  sullen  earth  arising  "  to  "  sing  hymns  at  heaven's 
gate."  Swinburne,  gifted  with  rare  powers  of  expression, 
unqualifiedly  pronounces "  The  Ancient  Mariner  "  "  the  most 
wonderful  of  all  poems,"  as  Wordsworth,  and  others  in  after 
years,  declared  Coleridge  to  be  "the  most  wonderful  man," 
in  respect  of  thoughts  conveyed  in  magical  speech,  they  had 
ever  met.  The  strange  wild  melody  and  uncanny  fascination 
of  this  poem  place  it  on  a  pedestal  all  its  own  in  literature. 
"  Christabel "  is  another  incomparable  monument  of  genius 
and  art,  meaningless  but  enthralling,  only  an  incomplete 
beginning,  yet  sublimer  for  all  that  it  leaves  in  the  vague. 
The  "Ode  to  France,"  an  apostrophe  to  liberty,  and  "Ode 
to  the  New  Year,"  rank  with  the  better  known  odes  of  Dry- 
den,  Collins,  and  Gray.  The  unevenness  of  Coleridge's  work 
and  his  small  poetic  output  are  explained  by  his  long  strug- 
gle with  poverty,  and  a  still  sadder  malady.  Yet,  mystic 
philosopher,  though  he  was,  he  has  contributed  to  lyric  verse 
one  of  the  purest  love  songs  in  the  language,  "Genevieve." 

THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 

THE  ship  was  cheered,  the  harbor  cleared, 

Merrily  did  we  drop 

Below  the  kirk,  below  the  hill, 

Below  the  lighthouse  top. 

The  sun  came  up  upon  the  left, 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he ! 
And  he  shone  bright,  and  on  the  right 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

And  now  the  storm-blast  came,  and  he 
Was  tyrannous  and  strong ; 
He  struck  with  his  o'ertaking  wiugs, 
And  chased  us  south  along. 

With  sloping  masts  and  dipping  prow, 

As  who  pursued  with  yell  and  blow 

Still  treads  the  shadow  of  his  foe, 

And  forward  bends  his  head, 

The  ship  drove  fast,  loud  roared  the  blast, 

And  southward  aye  we  fled. 


250  IJTBRATURE  OF  AI<I<  NATIONS. 

And  now  there  came  both  mist  and  snow, 
And  it  grew  wondrous  cold  ; 
And  ice,  mast  high,  came  floating  by, 
As  green  as  emerald. 

And  through  the  drifts,  the  snowy  clifts 
Did  send  a  dismal  sheen ; 
Nor  shapes  of  men  nor  beasts  we  ken — 
The  ice  was  all  between. 

The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there, 

The  ice  was  all  around  ; 

It  cracked  and  growled,  and  roared  and  howled, 

Like  noises  in  a  swound  ; 

At  length  did  cross  an  Albatross, 
Through  the  fog  it  came ; 
As  if  it  had  been  a  Christian  soul, 
We  hailed  it  in  God's  name. 

It  ate  the  food  it  ne'er  had  eat, 
And  round  and  round  it  flew. 
The  ice  did  split  with  a  thunder-fit ; 
The  helmsman  steered  us  through ! 

And  a  good  south  wind  sprung  up  behind ; 

The  Albatross  did  follow, 

And  every  day,  for  food  or  play, 

Came  to  the  mariner's  hollo! 

In  mist  of  cloud,  on  mast  or  shroud, 

It  perched  for  vespers  nine ; 

Whiles  all  the  night,  through  fog-smoke  white, 

Glimmered  the  white  moonshine. 

"God  save  thee,  ancient  Mariner, 
From  the  fiends  that  plague  thee  thus! 
Why  look'st  thou  so?  "—With  my  cross-bow 
I  shot  the  Albatross. 

The  sun  now  rose  upon  the  right ; 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he, 
Still  hid  in  mist,  and  on  the  left 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  25! 

And  the  good  south  wind  still  blew  behind, 
But  no  sweet  bird  did  follow, 
Nor  any  day,  for  food  or  play, 
Came  to  the  mariner's  hollo ! 

And  I  had  done  a  hellish  thing, 

And  it  would  work  'em  woe : 

For  all  averred  I  had  killed  the  bird 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow. 

Ah  wretch  !   said  they,  the  bird  to  slay, 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow. 

Nor  dim,  nor  red,  like  God's  own  head, 

The  glorious  sun  uprist : 

Then  all  averred  I  had  killed  the  bird 

That  brought  the  fog  and  mist. 

'Twas  right,  said  they,  such  birds  to  slay, 

That  bring  the  fog  and  mist. 

The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam  flew, 

The  furrow  followed  free ; 

We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 

Into  that  silent  sea. 

Down  dropt  the  breeze,  and  sails  dropt  down* 
'Twas  sad  as  sad  could  be  ; 
And  we  did  speak  only  to  break 
The  silence  of  the  sea ! 

All  in  a  hot  and  copper  sky, 
The  bloody  sun,  at  noon, 
Right  up  above  the  mast  did  stand, 
No  bigger  than  the  moon. 

Day  after  day,  day  after  day, 
We  stuck,  nor  breath  nor  motion  ; 
As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean. 

Water,  water,  everywhere, 
And  all  the  boards  did  shrink ; 
Water,  water,  everywhere, 
Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 


252  WTERATURB  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

The  very  deep  did  rot :  O  Christ ! 
That  ever  this  should  be  ! 
Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with  legs 
Upon  the  slimy  sea. 

About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout 
The  death  fires  danced  at  night ; 
The  water,  like  a  witch's  oils, 
Burned  green  and  blue  and  white. 

And  some  in  dreams  assured  were 
Of  the  spirit  that  plagued  us  so  ; 
Nine  fathom  deep  he  had  followed  us 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 

And  every  tongue,  through  utter  drought, 
Was  withered  at  the  root ; 
We  could  not  speak,  no  more  than  if 
We  had  been  choked  with  soot. 

Ah  !  welladay !  what  evil  looks 
Had  I  from  old  and  young ! 
Instead  of  the  cross,  the  Albatross 
About  my  neck  was  hung. 

Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone, 
Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea ! 
And  never  a  saint  took  pity  on 
My  soul  in  agony. 

The  many  men  so  beautiful ! 

And  they  all  dead  did  lie : 

And  a  thousand  thousand  slimy  things 

I4ved  on ;  and  so  did  I. 

I  looked  upon  the  rotting  sea, 
And  drew  my  eyes  away ; 
I  looked  upon  the  rotting  deck, 
And  there  the  dead  men  lay. 

I  looked  to  heaven,  and  tried  to  pray 
But  or  ever  a  prayer  had  gusht, 
A  wicked  whisper  came,  and  made 
My  heart  as  dry  as  dust. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  253 

I  closed  my  lids,  and  kept  them  close, 

And  the  balls  like  pulses  beat ; 

For  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  sea  and  the  sky, 

L/ay  like  a  load  on  my  weary  eye, 

And  the  dead  were  at  my  feet. 

The  cold  sweat  melted  from  their  limbs, 
Nor  rot  nor  reek  did  they : 
The  look  with  which  they  looked  on  me 
Had  never  passed  away. 

An  orphan's  curse  would  drag  to  hell 

A  spirit  from  on  high ; 

But  oh  !  more  horrible  than  that 

Is  the  curse  in  a  dead  man's  eye  ! 

Seven  days,  seven  nights,  I  saw  that  curse. 

And  yet  I  could  not  die. 

The  moving  moon  went  up  the  sky, 
And  nowhere  did  abide : 
Softly  she  was  going  up, 
And  a  star  or  two  beside — 

Her  beams  bemock'd  the  sultry  main, 
Like  April  hoar-frost  spread ; 
But  where  the  ship's  huge  shadow  lay 
The  charmed  water  burnt  alway 
A  still  and  awful  red. 

Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  ship 

I  watched  the  water  snakes : 

They  moved  in  tracks  of  shining  white, 

And  when  they  reared,  the  elfish  light 

Fell  off  in  hoary  flakes. 

Within  the  shadow  of  the  ship 

I  watched  their  rich  attire : 

Blue,  glossy  green,  and  velvet  black, 

They  coiled  and  swam  ;  and  every  track 

Was  a  flash  of  golden  fire. 

O  happy  living  things !  no  tongue 
Their  beauty  might  declare : 
A  spring  of  love  gushed  from  my  heart, 
And  I  blessed  them  unaware : 


254  LITERATURE  OP  AW,  NATIONS. 

Sure  my  kind  saint  took  pity  on  me, 
And  I  blessed  them  unaware. 

The  self-same  moment  I  could  pray : 
And  from  my  neck  so  free 
The  Albatross  fell  off,  and  sank 
I^ike  lead  into  the  sea. 

GKNEVIEVE. 

Aw,  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
Are  all  but  ministers  of  love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
lyive  o'er  again  that  happy  hour 
When  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay, 
Beside  the  ruined  tower. 

The  moonshine,  stealing  o'er  the  scene, 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve ; 
And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy, 
My  own  dear  Genevieve ! 

She  leaned  against  the  armed  man, 
The  statue  of  the  armed  knight; 
She  stood  and  listened  to  my  lay 
Amid  the  lingering  light. 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own, 
My  hope,  my  joy,  my  Genevieve! 
She  loves  me  best  whene'er  I  sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

I  played  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story — 
An  old  rude  song  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  down-cast  eyes  and  modest  grace ; 
For  well  she  knew  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  255 

I  told  her  of  the  knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand ; 
And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  wooed 
The  lady  of  the  land. 

I  told  her  how  he  pined,  and  ah ! 
The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
With  which  I  sang  another's  love, 
Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace ; 
And  she  forgave  me  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face. 

But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 
Which  crazed  this  bold  and  lovely  knight, 
And  that  he  crossed  the  mountain-woods, 
Nor  rested  day  nor  night ; 

But  sometimes  from  the  savage  den, 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade, 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once, 
In  green  and  sunny  glade, 

There  came  and  looked  him  in  the  face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright ; 
And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  fiend, 
This  miserable  knight ! 

And  that,  unknowing  what  he  did, 
He  leaped  amid  a  murderous  band, 
And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than  death 
The  lady  of  the  land ; 

And  how  she  wept  and  clasped  his  knees, 
And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain — 
And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed   his  brain. 

And  that  she  nursed  him  in  a  cave  ; 
And  how  his  madness  went  away, 
When  on  the  yellow  forest  leaves 
A  dying  man  he  lay; 


256  WTERATURB  OP  AW,  NATIONS. 

His  dying  words — but  when  I  reached 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty, 
My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 
Disturbed  her  soul  with  pity! 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrilled  my  guileless  Genevieve — 
The  music  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve ; 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope, 
An  undistinguishable  throng  ; 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 
Subdued  and  cherished  long ! 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight, 
She  blushed  with  love  and  virgin  shame ; 
And,  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved,  she  stept  aside ; 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stept — 
Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye, 
She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  enclosed  me  with  her  arms, 
She  pressed  me  with  a  meek  embrace, 
And,  bending  back  her  head,  looked  up, 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

'Twas  partly  love  and  partly  fear, 
And  partly  'twas  a  bashful  art, 
That  I  might  rather  feel  than  see 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calmed  her  fears ;  and  she  was  calm ; 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride, 
&nd  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 

My  bright  and  beauteous  bride ! 

YOUTH  AND  AGE. 

VERSE,  a  breeze  mid  blossoms  straying 
Where  Hope  clung  feeding,  like  a  bee — 
Both  were  mine !    I4fe  went  a-maying 


ENGLISH  UTBRATURE.  257 

With  Nature,  Hope,  and  Poesy, 

When  I  was  young ! 
When  I  was  young  ?     Ah  woeful  when  I 
Ah  for  the  change  'twixt  now  and  then ! 
This  breathing  house  not  built  with  hands, 
This  body  that  does  me  grievous  wrong, 
O'er  airy  cliffs  and  glittering  sands, 
How  lightly  then  it  flashed  along  ! 
Like  those  trim  skiffs  unknown  of  yore 
On  winding  lakes  and  rivers  wide, 
That  ask  no  aid  of  sail  or  oar, 
That  fear  no  spite  of  wind  or  tide, — 
Naught  cared  this  body  for  wind  or  weather, 
When  youth  and  I  lived  in't  together. 

Flowers  are  lovely ;  Love  is  flower-like ; 
Friendship  is  a  sheltering  tree ; 
Oh  the  joys  that  came  down  shower-like, 
Of  Friendship,  Love,  and  Liberty, 

Ere  I  was  old  ! 

Ere  I  was  old  ?     Ah  woeful  ere  / 
Which  tells  me  Youth's  no  longer  here  ! 

0  Youth  !  for  years  so  many  and  sweet, 
'Tis  known  that  thou  and  I  were  one; 
I'll  think  it  but  a  fond  conceit — 

It  cannot  be  that  thou  art  gone ; 
Thy  vesper-bell  hath  not  yet  toll'd, 
And  thou  wert  aye  a  masquer  bold ; 
What  strange  disguise  hast  now  put  on, 
To  make  believe  that  thou  art  gone  ? 

1  see  these  locks  in  silvery  slips, 
This  drooping  gait,  this  altered  size ; 
But  spring-tide  blossoms  on  thy  lips, 
And  tears  take  sunshine  from  thine  eyes ! 
Life  is  but  thought ;  so  think  I  will 
That  Youth  and  I  are  housemates  still. 

ix — 17 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


IN  his  outward  placid  life  of  eighty  years  Wordsworth 
experienced  all  the  pangs  of  hope  deferred,  of  cold  criticism, 
and  ridicule,  that  have  before  time  soured  when*  they  failed  to 
break  the  hearts  of  susceptible  poets.  For  many  years,  he 
told  a  friend,  his  poetry  did  not  bring  in  enough  money  to 
buy  shoestrings.  His  first  earnings  were  £100  for  the  u  Lyrical 
Ballads, "  containing  also  Coleridge's  "Ancient  Mariner. " 
This  was  in  1800,  when  he  was  thirty,  and  his  pen  produced 
nothing  for  the  next  thirty-five  years,  when  his  copyrights 
were  bought  for  .£1,000.  His  literary  success  was  little  more 
cheering  than  the  commercial.  Even  to-day,  half  a  century 
after  his  death,  his  place  among  the  immortals  is  discussed  as 
an  open  question.  Yet  in  this  is  proof  of  his  sure  title,  for 
mediocrity  never  retains  the  enthusiastic  devotion  of  able 
minds  to  the  second  generation.  Wordsworth's  evolution  as 
a  poet  is  traceable  in  three  periods  or  phases:  the  first  pro- 
duced the  "  Lyrical  Ballads  "  and  other  poems  in  his  simpler 
vein;  the  second,  from  1820  to  1830,  his  middle  period,  placed 
before  the  public  his  theory  of  poetry  with  examples  for  their 
verdict;  and  the  third  period,  1830  to  1840,  gradually  vindi- 
cated his  stand  and  brought  him  honors.  To  judge  particular 
poems  without  reference  to  their  date  and  the  phase  through 
which  the  author's  mind  was  passing,  is  to  miss  a  rightful 
appreciation  and  probably  do  injustice  to  the  poet. 

Wordsworth  was  born  in  the  Lake  country  of  Northern 
England  in  1770,  and  was  graduated  at  Cambridge.  He 
shared  the  boyish  enthusiasm  of  the  French  Revolution  with 
258 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  259 

his  friends  Coleridge  and  Southey.  With  a  small  patrimony, 
eked  out  by  a  legacy,  he  and  his  devoted  sister  Dorothy  lived 
for  eight  uneventful  years.  He  married  in  1802,  and  when 
their  family  increased  the  poet  was,  in  1813,  appointed  stamp- 
distributor  of  his  county  at  a  salary  of  £$oo.  Two  years  later 
he  published  "  The  White  Roe  of  Rylstone,"  which  he  had 
written  eight  years  before,  and  a  collected  edition  of  his  poems. 
The  Edinburgh  Review  poured  contempt  upon  Wordsworth, 
calling  "The  White  Doe"  the  worst  poem  ever  written,  in 
which  apparently  sweeping  condemnation  may  be  perceived 
the  admission  that  a  poem  it  was,  for  all  its  faults.  He  rashly 
challenged  his  critics  by  publishing  two  poems  written  in  his 
earlier  style  and  period,  "  Peter  Bell,'7  dating  from  1798,  and 
"The  Wagoner,"  written  in  1805.  When  made  public  in 
1819,  these  received  the  same  fierce  ridicule  as  that  which 
assailed  his  share  of  the  "  Lyrical  Ballads."  These  trivialities 
were  followed  by  several  poems  conceived  in  loftier  spirit  and 
penned  to  nobler  measures.  The  uL,aodamia,n  the  "  Vernal 
Ode,"  the  "Intimations  of  Immortality,"  the  lines  on  "Tin- 
tern  Abbey, '  '  and  the  rest,  have  long  taken  a  place  of  honor 
among  the  permanent  triumphs  of  poetry.  When  the  deaths 
of  Scott  and  Byron  freed  the  public  from  the  spell  they  had 
bound  it  with,  second  thoughts  asserted  their  right  of  revision, 
and  Wordsworth's  exalted  and  serene  genius  began  to  be  per- 
ceived. Coleridge  had  cleared  the  air,  not  always  to  the 
advantage  of  his  friend's  crudities,  but  certainly  to  the  gain 
of  the  reflective  poems  and  their  reflective  readers.  So  sure, 
though  slow,  was  the  growth  of  his  fame  that  when  Southey 
died,  the  laureateship  was  conferred  on  Wordsworth,  in  1844. 
He  wrote  but  one  official  ode,  three  years  before  his  death 
in  1850. 

As  the  devotee  and  esoteric  interpreter  of  nature,  intent  on 
uttering  its  inspirations  in  a  language  appropriately  simple, 
Wordsworth  brought  to  his  task  a  profound  sympathy  and 
ample  imagination.  He  deliberately  set  himself  to  defy  the 
artificial  poetic  diction  and  affected  style  of  eighteenth  century 
verse.  In  his  ardor  for  a  return  to  the  natural,  he  overdid 
his  purpose,  as  seen  in  the  badly  prosaical  ballads  and  some 
of  the  poems.  This  rigid  attitude  is  abandoned,  as  if  in 


260  UTERATURB  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

proud  triumph  over  critics  who  doubted  his  powers,  in  the 
splendid  cluster  of  the  poems  by  which  his  fame  will  be 
borne.  He  wrote  too  much  for  his  good;  but  even  in  the 
dreariest  pieces,  of  which  there  are  not  a  few,  there  are  unex- 
pected pearls  of  thought  and  memorable  couplets.  Among 
the  sonnets  which  he  composed  too  easily  are  some  of  the 
noblest  in  literature,  and  they  embody  the  noblest  thoughts. 
As  a  meditative  poet  Wordsworth  has  no  superior  in  his  calm 
vein,  and  from  his  descriptive  passages  can  be  culled  examples 
of  the  greatest  power  and  beauty.  When  admirers  and  de- 
tractors agree  in  a  general  estimate,  which  rises  at  its  highest 
to  Milton,  and  falls  no  lower  than  Cowper,  the  shade  of 
Wordsworth  may  enjoy  tranquil  content. 

A  PORTRAIT. 

• 

SHE  was  a  phantom  of  delight 
When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight ; 
A  lovely  apparition,  sent 
To  be  a  moment's  ornament ; 
Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair ; 
I^ike  twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair; 
But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn ; 
A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay, 
To  haunt,  to  startle  and  waylay. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 
A  spirit,  yet  a  woman  too  ! 
Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 
And  steps  of  virgin  liberty  ; 
A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 
Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 
A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food ; 
For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 
Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears  and  smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine  ; 
A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  traveler  'twixt  life  and  death ; 
The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 


ENGUSH  LITERATURE.  26 1 

Endurance,  foresight,  strength  and  skill, 
A  perfect  woman,  nobly  plann'd, 
To  warn,  to  comfort  and  command; 
And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  an  angel  light. 

LAODAMIA. 

IN  response  to  the  prayers  of  Laodamia,  the  spirit  of  her  husband 
Protesilaus  was  permitted  to  visit  her.  He  was  the  first  of  the 
Achaians  slain  at  the  siege  of  Troy. 

"PEACE!"  he  said. 

She  looked  upon  him,  and  was  calmed  and  cheered ; 
The  ghastly  color  from  his  lips  had  fled ; 

In  his  deportment,  shape,  and  mien  appeared 
Blysian  beauty,  melancholy  grace, 
Brought  from  a  pensive  though  a  happy  place. 

He  spake  of  love :  such  love  as  Spirits  feel 
In  worlds  whose  course  is  equable  and  pure ; 

No  fears  to  beat  away,  no  strifes  to  heal — 
The  Past  unsigned  for,  and  the  Future  sure ; 

Spake  of  heroic  arts  in  graver  mood 

Revived,  with  finer  harmony  pursued ; 

Of  all  that  is  most  beauteous,  imaged  there 
In  happier  beauty ;  more  pellucid  streams, 

An  ampler  ether,  a  diviner  air, 

And  fields  invested  with  purpureal  gleams ; 

Climes  which  the  sun,  who  sheds  the  brightest  day 

Earth  knows,  is  all  unworthy  to  survey. 

Yet  there  the  soul  shall  enter  which  hath  earned 

That  privilege  by  virtue.     "  111,"  said  he, 
"The  end  of  man's  existence  I  discerned, 
Who  from  ignoble  games  and  revelry 
Could  draw,  when  we  had  parted,  vain  delight, 
While  tears  were  thy  best  pastime,  day  and  night ; 

"And  while  my  youthful  peers  before  my  sight 

(Each  hero  following  his  peculiar  bent) 
Prepared  themselves  for  glorious  enterprise 

By  martial  sports ;  or,  seated  in  the  tent, 
Chieftains  and  kings  in  council  were  detained 
What  time  the  fleet  at  Aulis  lay  enchained — 


262  LITERATURE  OF  AM,  NATIONS. 

"The  wished- for  wind  was  given.     I  then  revolved 

The  oracle  upon  the  silent  sea ; 
And,  if  no  worthier  led  the  way,  resolved 

That  of  a  thousand  vessels  mine  should  be 
The  foremost  prow  in  pressing  to  the  strand — 
Mine  the  first  blood  that  tinged  the  Trojan  sand. 

"  Yet  bitter,  oft-times  bitter,  was  the  pang 

When  of  thy  loss  I  thought,  beloved  Wife : 
On  thee  too  fondly  would  my  memory  hang, 
And  on  the  joys  we  shared  in  mortal  life  ; 
The  paths  which  we  had  trod  ;  these  fountains,  flowers, 
My  new-planned  cities  and  unfinished  towers. 

"But  should  suspense  permit  the  foe  to  cry — 

'  Behold,  they  tremble !  haughty  their  array, 
Yet  of  their  number  no  one  dares  to  die  ! ' — 

In  soul  I  swept  the  indignity  away. 
Old  frailties  then  recurred ;  but  lofty  thought, 
In  act  embodied,  my  deliverance  wrought. 

"  And  thou,  though  strong  in  love,  art  all  too  weak 
In  reason,  in  self-government  too  slow  ; 

I  counsel  thee  by  fortitude  to  seek 

Our  blest  re-union  in  the  shades  below, 

The  Invisible  World  with  thee  hath  sympathized : 

Be  thy  affections  raised  and  solemnized. 

"I^earn,  by  a  mortal  yearning,  to  ascend, 

Seeking  a  higher  object.     Love  was  given, 
Encouraged,  sanctioned,  chiefly  for  that  end ; 
For  this  the  passion  to  excess  was  driven — 
That  Self  might  be  annulled ;  her  bondage  prove 
The  fetters  of  a  dream,  opposed  to  love!  " 

Aloud  she  shrieked  ;  for  Hermes  re-appears, 

Round  the  dear  Shade  she  would  have  clung — 'tis  vain ! 
he  hours  are  passed— too  brief  had  they  been  years; 
And  him  no  mortal  effort  can  detain. 

Swift  towards  the  realms  that  know  not  earthly  day, 

He  through  the  portal  takes  his  silent  way ; 

And  on  the  palace-floor  a  lifeless  corse  she  lay. 


ENGLISH  UTBRATURB.  263 


INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY  FROM  RECOLLECTIONS  OF 
EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

OUR  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting ; 
The  soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  Star, 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 
And  cometh  from  afar: 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home : 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy ! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  Boy, 
But  He  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy ; 
The  Youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  East 

Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  Priest, 

And  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended  ; 
At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with, pleasures  of  her  own; 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind, 
And  even  with  something  of  a  Mother's  mind, 

And  no  unworthy  aim, 

The  homely  Nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  Foster-child,  her  Inmate  Man, 

Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known, 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 

Behold  the  child  among  his  new-born  blisses 
A  six  years'  Darling  of  a  pigmy  size ! 
See  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies, 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses, 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's  eyes. 
See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart 
Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life, 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned  ait ! 
A  wedding  or  a  festival. 


264  WTERATURE  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral, 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 

And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song ; 

Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife ; 

But  it  will  not  be  long 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside, 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  Actor  cons  another  part ; 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  "  humorous  stage" 
With  all  the  Persons,  down  to  palsied  Age, 
That  Life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage, 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitation. 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 

Thy  Soul's  immensity; 
Thou  best  Philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage,  thou  Eye  among  the  blind, 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep, 
Haunted  forever  by  the  eternal  mind, — 

Mighty  Prophet !  Seer  blest ! 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest, 
Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find, 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave  ; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  Immortality 
Broods  like  the  Day,  a  Master  o'er  a  Slave, 
A  Presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by ; 
Thou  little  Child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's  height, 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke, 
Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife  ? 
Full  soon  thy  soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight, 
And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight, 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life ! 

O  joy  that  in  our  embers 
Is  something  that  doth  live, 
That  nature  yet  remembers 
What  was  so  fugitive  ! 

The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 

Perpetual  benediction:  not  indeed 


ENGLISH  UTBRATURR.  265 

For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest ; 

Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 

Of  childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 

With  new-fledged  hopes  still  fluttering  in  his  breast : — 

Not  for  these  I  raise 

The  song  of  thanks  and  praise ; 

But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 

Of  sense  and  outward  things, 

Fallings  from  us,  vanishings ; 

Blank  misgivings  of  a  Creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized, 
High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal  Nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised ; 

But  for  those  first  affections 

Those  shadowy  recollections, 

Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing ; 
Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  Silence :  truths  that  wake 

To  perish  never ; 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavor, 

Nor  Man  nor  Boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy  ! 

Hence  in  a  season  of  calm  weather 

Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our'  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 

Which  brought  us  hither, 

Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, 
And  see  the  children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 

THE  SONNET. 

SCORN  not  the  Sonnet ;  Critic,  you  have  frowned, 
Mindless  of  its  just  honors ;  with  this  key 
Shakespeare  unlocked  his  heart  ;  the  melody 
Of  this  small  lute  gave  ease  to  Petrarch's  wound; 
A  thousand  times  this  pipe  did  Tasso  sound : 
With  it  Camdens  soothed  an  exile's  grief; 


266  LITERATURE  OF  AM,  NATIONS. 

The  Sonnet  glittered  a  gay  myrtle  leaf 
Amid  the  cypress  with  which  Dante  crowned 
His  visionary  brow,  a  glow-worm  lamp, 
It  cheered  mild  Spenser,  called  from  Fairyland 
To  struggle  through  dark  ways ;  and  when  a  damp 
Fell  round  the  path  of  Milton,  in  his  hand 
The  Thing  became  a  trumpet :  whence  he  blew 
Soul-animating  strains — alas,  too  few ! 

THE  WORLD  is  Too  MUCH  WITH  Us. 

THE  world  is  too  much  with  us ;  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers : 
Little  we  see  in  nature  that  is  ours ; 

We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon ! 

This  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon, 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 
And  are  up  gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers; 

For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune ; 

It  moves  us  not.     Great  God  !  I'd  rather  be 
A  pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn  ; 

So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn ; 

Have  sight  of  Proteus  coming  from  the  sea ; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 

IvONDON. 
(Composed  upon  Westminster  Bridge,  September  3,  1802.) 

EARTH  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair : 
Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty : 

This  city  now  doth  like  a  garment  wear 

The  beauty  of  the  morning ;  silent,  bare, 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples  lie 
Open  unto  the  fields  and  to  the  sky, 

All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 

Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep, 
In  his  first  splendor,  valley,  rock,  or  hill ; 

Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep ! 
The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will : 

Dear  God  !  the  very  houses  seem  asleep ; 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still ! 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 

SOUTHEY  was  one  of  the  Poets 
Laureate,  but  his  title  to  remembrance 
is  rather  to  be  found  in  the  rambling 
prose  work  which  he  never  acknowl- 
edged publicly—  "  The  Doctor. ' '  He 
was  born  in  1774.  Though  destined 
to  be  a  book -man,  he  made  but  sorry 
progress  in  his  college  career  at  Ox- 
ford. The  influence  of  Coleridge  on 
his  romantic  temperament  at  the  crit- 
ical age  of  twenty-one,  and  his  secret 
marriage  at  that  time,  were  not  calcu- 
lated to  steady  his  mind  to  practical  aims.  Their  wild 
"  pantisocracy  n  for  establishing  a  second  Eden  on  the  banks 
of  the  Susquehanna  river,  served  to»  bring  the  two  apostles 
daily  bread  during  their  tour  of  lecturing.  Then  Southey 
settled  down  to  domestic  life,  in  1803,  in  the  house  famed  as 
Greta  Hall,  headquarters  of  the  English  Lake  School  of  poets 
and  poetry. 

Southey's  literary  industry  was  unflagging  and  versatile ; 
he  tried  every  sort  of  writing,  made  a  high  average  in  prose, 
and  a  low  one — measured  by  later  poetic  standards — in  verse. 
It  was  his  fatal  facility  with  his  pen  which  blinded  him  to  the 
necessity  of  cultivating  his  art.  His  early  epics  and  other 
poems  (" Wat  Tyler"  was  published  in  his  twentieth  year) 
have  no  properly  constructed  plot  or  form.  His  training  and 
bias  crystallized  his  new-fledged  unreasoning  Toryism  which, 
while  it  prejudiced  his  work,  brought  him  substantial  profit, 
as  he  was  made  poet  laureate  in  1813.  The  remaining  thirty 
years  of  his  life  were  spent  in  his  Keswick  home,  in  which 
vicissitude  and  sorrow  never  ceased  to  lodge.  With  literary 
success  came  many  literary  woes,  political  quarrels,  and  trials 
of  friendship.  His  first  wife  lost  her  reason,  his  children 
died.  He  lived  the  life  of  a  solitary,  with  his  much-loved 
books,  of  which  he  had  gathered  fourteen  thousand,  a  vast 
library  for  those  days.  In  1839  he  married  the  poetess  Caro- 


268  WTERATURE  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

line  Bowles,  but  that  same  year  saw  the  beginning  of  his  own 
mental  decay,  which  ended  with  his  death  in  1844. 

His  epics,  "Joan  of  Arc,"  "Madoc,"  and  "Roderick,  the 
I^ast  of  the  Goths,"  are  now  unread.  Even  the  "  Curse  of 
Kehama,"  and  "Thalaba,  the  Destroyer,"  hardly  survive  by 
virtue  of  occasional  gleams  of  poetic  fire  in  flights  of  brilliant 
fancy.  These  poems  abound,  as  do  his  prose  writings,  in 
wealth  of  old-world  lore  and  weird  glimpses  into  the  super- 
natural, but  they  lack  the  human  interest,  without  which 
poetry  is  little  else  than  mechanical  form.  His  duties  as 
laureate  weighed  heavily  on  Southey,  exaggerating  his  faith 
in  the  divine  right  into  something  like  deification  of  his  sov- 
ereign master,  George  III.  Allowance  may,  perhaps,  be  made 
for  the  incessant  strain  of  domestic  trouble  upon  weakening 
mental  powers.  Few  prose  authors,  and  no  poet,  before  or 
since,  have  printed  so  many  prose  works  as  the  industrious 
and  inexhaustible  Southey.  His  "Common-Place  Book"  has 
furnished  learning,  quaint  fancies,  and  outlandish  facts  for  an 
army  of  ambitious  authors,  who  shine  in  borrowed  plumage. 
The  same  may  be  said  of  his  "Book  of  the  Church,"  and  that 
whimsical  mine  of  true  ore,  "The  Doctor."  His  "  lyife  of 
Nelson  "  deserves  its  eminence  as  a  model  narrative,  instinct 
•with  the  spirit  of  patriotism.  His  biographies  of  John  Wesley 
and  William  Cowper  exhibit  the  same  sterling  qualities, 
though  the  subjects  appeal  to  smaller  audiences  than  find 
excitement  in  the  adventures  of  the  great  sailor-warrior. 
Among  Southey's  biographies  those  of  Bunyan  and  Cromwell 
have  interest  as  studies  from  an  unsympathetic  point  of  view. 
His  own  unique  character  is  best  appreciated  by  a  glance  at 
his  "letters,"  posthumously  published. 

MY  BOOKS. 

MY  days  among  the  dead  are  past : 

Around  me  I  behold, 
Where'er  these  casual  eyes  are  cast, 

The  mighty  minds  of  old : 
My  never-failing  friends  are  they, 
With  whom  I  converse  day  by  day. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  269 

With  them  I  take  delight  in  weal 

And  seek  relief  in  woe  ; 
And,  while  I  understand  and  feel 

How  much  to  them  I  owe, 
My  cheeks  have  often  been  bedewed 
With  tears  of  thoughtful  gratitude. 

My  thoughts  are  with  the  dead ;  with  them 

I  live  in  long-past  years ; 
Their  virtues  love,  their  faults  condemn, 

Partake  their  hopes  and  fears, 
And  from  their  lessons  seek  and  find 
Instruction  with  an  humble  mind. 

My  hopes  are  with  the  dead ;  anon 

My  place  with  them  will  be ; 
And  I  with  them  shall  travel  on 

Through  all  futurity, 
Yet  leaving  here  a  name,  I  trust, 
That  will  not  perish  in  the  dust. 

THE  HOLLY-TREE. 

0  READER  !  hast  thou  ever  stood  to  see 

The  holly-tree  ? 
The  eye  that  contemplates  it  well  perceives 

Its  glossy  leaves, 

Ordered  by  an  intelligence  so  wise 
As  might  confound  the  atheist's  sophistries. 

Below,  a  circling  fence,  its  leaves  are  seen, 

Wrinkled  and  keen ; 
No  grazing  cattle  through  their  prickly  round 

Can  reach  to  wound ; 

But,  as  they  grow  where  nothing  is  to  fear, 
Smooth  and  unarmed  the  pointless  leaves  appear. 

1  love  to  view  these  things  with  curious  eyes, 

And  moralize ; 
And  in  this  wisdom  of  the  holly-tree 

Can  emblems  see 

Wherewith  perchance  to  make  a  pleasant  rhyme, — 
One  which  may  profit  in  the  after-time. 


270  UTBRATURE  OF  AM,  NATIONS. 

Thus,  though  abroad  perchance  I  might  appear 

Harsh  and  austere, — 
To  those  who  on  my  leisure  would  intrude, 

Reserved  and  rude, — 
Gentle  at  home  amid  my  friends  I'd  be, 
Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  holly-tree. 

And  should  my  youth  (as  youth  is  apt,  I  know; 

Some  harshness  show, 
All  vain  asperities  I  day  by  day 

Would  wear  away, 

Till  the  smooth  temper  of  my  age  should  be 
Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  holly-tree. 

And  as,  when  all  the  summer  trees  are  seen 

So  bright  and  green, 
The  holly-leaves  a  sober  hue  display 

Less  bright  than  they, — 
But  when  the  bare  and  wintry  woods  we  see, 
What  then  so  cheerful  as  the  holly-tree  ? — 

So  serious  should  my  youth  appear  among 

The  thoughtless  throng, 
So  would  I  seem,  among  the  young  and  gay, 

More  grave  than  they  ; 
That  in  my  age  as  cheerful  I  might  be 
As  the  green  winter  of  the  holly-tree. 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 


ONLY  by  his  shorter  poems  is  Campbell  now  remembered, 
though  his  "Pleasures  of  Hope"  lingered  long  in  general 
esteem.  Thomas  Campbell  was  born  in  Glasgow  in  1777, 
and  was  educated  in  the  Universities  of  his  native  city  and 
of  Edinburgh.  His  "Pleasures  of  Hope"  was  published 
when  he  was  but  twenty-one  years  of  age,  and  had  an  imme- 
diate success.  In  1801  the  poet  visited  Germany  and  wit- 
nessed the  effects  of  the  war  then  raging  in  Bavaria.  One 
result  was  his  best  known  poem,  "  Hohenlinden,"  which  was 
composed  immediately  after  the  battle  it  depicts.  In  1803 
Campbell  settled  in  London,  devoting  himself  entirely  to  liter- 
ature. Among  his  best  poems  are  "  The  Battle  of  the  Baltic," 
"Lochiel's  Warning,"  " The  Soldier's  Dream,"  "The  Exile 
of  Erin,"  "Ye  Mariners  of  England,"  and  "Lord  Ullin's 
Daughter."  His  longer  and  more  sustained  efforts  such  as 
"Gertrude  of  Wyoming,"  "Theodoric,"  and  uThe  Pilgrim 
of  Glencoe,"  are  now  seldom  read.  The  force  and  fire  of  his 
lyrics  are  lost  in  the  tedious  narratives  of  his  later  years. 

Campbell  was  for  years  editor  of  Colburn's  New  Monthly 
Magazine,  and  besides  his  poems  he  published  "  Specimens 
of  the  English  Poets,"  and  some  biographical  and  critical 
works.  He  was  elected  Lord  Rector  of  Edinburgh  Univer- 
sity in  1827.  He  died  in  1844,  and  was  buried  in  Westmin* 
ster  Abbey. 

YE  MARINERS  OF  ENGLAND. 

YE  mariners  of  England ! 

That  guard  our  native  seas ; 

Whose  flag  has  braved  a  thousand  years 

The  battle  and  the  breeze  ! 

271 


272  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 
To  match  another  foe ! 
And  sweep  through  the  deep 
While  the  stormy  tempests  blow ; 
While  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 
And  the  stormy  tempests  blow. 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  from  every  wave ! 

For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 

And  ocean  was,  their  grave ; 

Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell, 

Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow, 

As  you  sweep  through  the  deep 

While  the  stormy  tempests  blow; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  tempests  blow. 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwark, 

No  towers  along  the  steep ; 

Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain- waves, 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 

With  thunders  from  her  native  oak 

She  quells  the  floods  below, 

As  they  roar  on  the  shore 

When  the  stormy  tempests  blow ; 

When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  tempests  blow. 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  burn; 

Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart, 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 

Then,  then,  ye  ocean-warriors ! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 

To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow ; 

When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more, 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow  ! 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  273 


BATTLE  OF  THE  BALTIC. 

OF  Nelson  and  the  North 

Sing  the  glorious  day's  renown, 

When  to  battle  fierce  carne  forth 

All  the  might  of  Denmark's  crown, 

And  her  arms  along  the  deep  proudly  shone ; 

By  each  gun  the  lighted  brand 

In  a  bold  determined  hand, 

And  the  Prince  of  all  the  land 

Led  them  on. 

Like  leviathans  afloat 

Lay  their  bulwarks  on  the  brine, 

While  the  sign  of  battle  flew 

On  the  lofty  British  line : 

It  was  ten  of  April  morn  by  the  chime : 

As  they  drifted  on  their  path, 

There  was  silence  deep  as  death, 

And  the  boldest  held  his  breath 

For  a  time. 

But  the  might  of  England  flushed 

To  anticipate  the  scene, 

And  her  van  the  fleeter  rushed 

O'er  the  deadly  space  between. — 

"  Hearts  of  oak, "  our  captains  cried,  when  each  gun 

From  its  adamantine  lips 

Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships, 

Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 

Of  the  sun. 

Again  !  again  !  again  I 

And  the  havoc  did  not  slack, 

Till  a  feeble  cheer  the  Dane 

To  our  cheering  sent  us  back ; — 

Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom  ;— - 

Then  ceased — and  all  is  wail, 

As  they  strike  the  shattered  sail, 

Or  in  conflagration  pale 

Light  the  gloom. 

IX-I? 


274  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

Out  spoke  the  victor  then, 

As  he  hailed  them  o'er  the  wave ; 

"Ye  are  brothers  !  ye  are  men  ! 

And  we  conquer  but  to  save ; 

So  peace  instead  of  death  let  us  bring : 

But  yield,  proud  foe,  thy  fleet 

With  the  crews  at  England's  feet, 

And  make  submission  meet 

To  our  king." 

Then  Denmark  blessed  our  chief, 

That  he  gave  her  wounds  repose; 

And  the  sounds  of  joy  and  grief 

From  her  people  wildly  rose, 

As  death  withdrew  his  shades  from  the  day; 

While  the  sun  looked  smiling  bright 

O'er  a  wide  and  woeful  sight, 

Where  the  fires  of  funeral  light 

Died  away. 

Now  joy,  old  England,  raise 

For  the  tidings  of  thy  might, 

By  the  festal  cities'  blaze, 

While  the  wine-cup  shines  in  light: 

And  yet  amidst  that  joy  and  uproar, 

Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep, 

Full  many  a  fathom  deep, 

By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 

Elsinore ! 

Brave  hearts !  to  Britain's  pride 

Once  so  faithful  and  so  true, 

On  the  deck  of  fame  that  died, — 

With  the  gallant  good  Riou, 

Soft  sigh  the  winds  of  heaven  o'er  their  grave 

While  the  billow  mournful  rolls, 

And  the  mermaid's  song  condoles, 

Singing  glory  to  the  souls 

Of  the  brave! 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  275 


THOMAS  HOOD. 

THE   "Song   of   the   Shirt " 
strikes  the  sympathetic  chord  the 
instant  it  is  named.     Its  pathos 
fitted  the  poet  himself  as  closely  as 
the  seamstress.     Hood's  short  life 
was  a  stitching  of  literary  fabrics 
"  from  wearisome  morn  till  night," 
from  his   delicate  youth   to   the 
deathbed  on  which  he  slaved  for 
bread  to  the  very  last.     Born  in 
1798  and  trained  for  business,  he 
took  to  literature  for  his  living 
before  his  twenty-fifth  year.     His  bent  for  drawing  was  not 
cultivated  beyond  what  sufficed  to  make  his  illustrations  of 
his  text  more  comical  by  their  badness  in  art.     He  came  on 
the  scene  too  early  to  reap  the  fortunes  now  showered  on 
humorists,  poets,  and  illustrators  with  one-tenth  his  genius. 
His  health  was  worse  than  precarious,  his  whole  life  an  un- 
broken struggle  with  poverty  and  suffering.      Few  literary 
toilers  produced  so  much  that  was  so  uniquely  good  and  so 
various.      Among  his   least  ambitious  pieces  are  scattered 
many  gems  of  poetic  beauty,  fairy  fancies,  and  superabundant 
puns.     As  a  poet  Hood  must  always  rank  with  the  sweet 
singers  whose  tones  kindle  responsive  strains  of  sympathy. 
He  possessed  art,  and  of  no  inferior  kind,  but  his  greatness 
was  of  the  heart.     Suffering  as  he  was  with  consumptive 
coughs,  yet  compelled  to  keep  grinding  out  the  ludicrous 
"Whims  and  Oddities "  that  kept  the  outer  public  on  the 
laugh,  his  true  voice,  where  it  got  rare  chances  to  speak  in 
poetry,  was  always  full  of  good  cheer  for  fellow-sufferers.    His 
daughter  records  that  while  all  England  was  enjoying  the  wit 
and  comicality  of  his  "Annual,"  the  pale  wife  and  wistful 
children  dreaded  to  look  at  the  printed  pages  until  the  lapse 
of  years  had  softened  the  sad  recollections  of  their  misery 
while  he  was  producing,  these  seemingly  merry  spontaneities. 
His  versatility  has  not  been  duly  appreciated.     He  is  a  poet 


276  LITERATURE  OF  AW  NATIONS. 

of  the  good,  the  true,  and  the  beautiful,  a  genuine  senti- 
mentalist, a  tragic  poet,  a  gentle  humorist,  an  effective  wit, 
and  a  punster  of  absolute  genius.  Too  much  of  his  work  was 
ephemeral,  and  part  trivial,  yet  enough  remains  of  solid  artis- 
tic and  moral  worth  to  give  him  lasting  fame.  He  died  in 
1845  of  bodily  but  not  mental  exhaustion. 


THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS. 


ONE  more  Unfortunate, 

Weary  of  breath, 
Rashly  importunate, 

Gone  to  her  death  ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care ; 

Fashioned  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair ! 

Look  at  her  garments 
Clinging  like  cerements ; 
Whilst  the  wave  constantly 

Drips  from  her  clothing ; 
Take  her  up  instantly, 

Loving,  not  loathing. — 

Touch  her  not  scornfully ; 
Think  of  her  mournfully, 

Gently  and  humanly ; 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her, 
All  that  remains  of  her 

Now  is  pure  womanly. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny 

Rash  and  undutiful: 
Past  all  dishonor, 
Death  has  left  on  her 

Only  the  beautiful. 


Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers 
Oozing  so  clammily. 

Loop  up  her  tresses 
Escaped  from  the  comb, 

Her  fair  auburn  tresses ; 

Whilst  wonderment  guesses 
Where  was  her  home  ? 

Who  was  her  father? 

Who  was  her  mother? 
Had  she  a  sister? 

Had  she  a  brother  ? 
Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 
Still,  and  a  nearer  one 
Yet,  than  all  other? 

Alas!  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 

Under  the  sun ! 
Oh !  it  was  pitiful ! 
Near  a  whole  city  full, 

Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 
Fatherly,  motherly 

Feelings  had  changed: 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 
Thrown  from  its  eminence : 
Even  God's  providence 

Seeming  estranged. 


Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers, 
One  of  Eve's  family — 


Where  the  lamps  quiver 
So  far  in  the  river, 


ENGUSH   LITERATURE. 


277 


With  many  a  light 
From  window  and  casement, 
From  garret  to  basement, 
She  stood,  with  amazement, 

Houseless  by  night. 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 
Made  her  tremble  and  shiver; 

But  not  the  dark  arch, 
Or  the  black  flowing  river : 

Mad  from  life's  history, 
Glad  to  death's  mystery, 

Swift  to  be  hurled — 
Any  where,  any  where 

Out  of  the  world ! 

In  she  plunged  boldly, 
No  matter  how  coldly 

The  rough  river  ran, — 
Over  the  brink  of  it, 
Picture  it — think  of  it, 

Dissolute  Man ! 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it, 

Then,  if  you  can ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care  ; 


Fashioned  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair ! 

Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 
Stiffen  too  rigidly, 

Decently, — kindly, — 
Smooth,  and  compose  them ; 
And  her  eyes,  close  them, 

Staring  so  blindly ! 

Dreadfully  staring 

Thro'  muddy  impurity, 
As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing 
Fix'd  on  futurity. 

Perishing  gloomily, 
Spurred  by  contumely, 
Cold  inhumanity, 
Burning  insanity, 

Into  her  rest. — 
Cross  her  hands  humbly, 
As  if  praying  dumbly, 

Over  her  breast. 

Owning  her  weakness, 

Her  evil  behaviour, 
And  leaving,  with  meekness, 

Her  sins  to  her  Saviour ! 


THE  DEATH-BED. 

WE  watched  her  breathing  thro'  the  night, 

Her  breathing  soft  and  low, 
As  in  her  breast  the  wave  of  life 

Kept  heaving  to  and  fro. 

So  silently  we  seemed  to  speak, 

So  slowly  moved  about, 
As  we  had  lent  her  half  our  powers 

To  eke  her  living  out. 

Our  very  hopes  belied  our  fears, 
Our  fears  our  hopes  belied — 


278  UTERATURF,  OF  AM,  NATIONS. 

We  thought  her  dying  when  she  slept, 
And  sleeping  when  she  died. 

For  when  the  morn  came  dim  and  sad, 
And  chill  with  early  showers, 

Her  quiet  eyelids  closed — she  had 
Another  morn  than  ours. 

SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT. 

WITH  fingers  weary  and  worn, 
With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 

A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 
Plying  her  needle  and  thread, — 
Stitch!  stitch!  stitch! 

In  poverty,  hunger  and  dirt, 
And  still,  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch, 

She  sang  the  "  Song  of  the  Shirt." 

"Work!  work!  work! 
While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof! 

And  work — work — work, 
Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof ! 
It's  oh !  to  be  a  slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 
Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save, 

If  this  is  Christian  work  ! 

"Work — work — work, 
Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim ; 

Work ! — work ! — work, 
Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim ! 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 

Band  and  gusset,  and  seam, 
Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep, 

And  sew  them  on  in  a  dream ! 

"Oh!  men,  with  sisters  dear  ! 

Oh !  men  with  mothers  and  wives! 
It  is  not  linen  you're  wearing  out 

But  human  creatures'  lives ! 
Stitch— stitch— stitch, 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 
Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 

A  shroud  as  well  as  a  shirt. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  279 

"  But  why  do  I  talk  of  death, 

That  phantom  of  grisly  bone, 
I  hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape, 

It  seems  so  like  my  own — 

It  seems  so  like  my  own, 

Because  of  the  fasts  I  keep ; 
Oh  God  !  that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap ! 

4 '  Work — work — work  ! 

My  labor  never  flags ; 
And  what  are  its  wages  ?    A  bed  of  straw, 

A  crust  of  bread, — and  rags, — 
That  shattered  roof — and  this  naked  floor — 

A  table — a  broken  chair— 
And  a  wall  so  blank,  my  shadow  I  thank 

For  sometimes  falling  there  ! 

"  Work — work — work ! 
From  weary  chime  to  chime ! 

Work — work — work , 
As  prisoners  work  for  crime ! 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 
Till  the  heart  is  sick,  and  the  brain  benumbed, 

As  well  as  the  weary  hand 

'  *  Work — work — work ! 
In  the  dull  December  light, 

And  work — work — work, 
When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright- 
While  underneath  the  eaves 

The  brooding  swallows  cling, 
As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs, 

And  twit  me  with  the  Spring. 

"  Oh !  but  to  breathe  the  breath 

Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet — 
With  the  sky  above  my  head 

And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet, 
For  only  one  sweet  hour 

To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel, 


280 


OF  AIJ,  NATIONS. 


Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want, 
And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal  ! 

'  '  Oh  !  but  for  one  short  hour  ! 

A  respite,  however  brief  ! 
No  blessed  leisure  for  love  or  hope, 

But  only  time  for  grief  ! 
A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart, 

But,  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop  * 

Hinders  needle  and  thread  !  v 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread  — 
Stitch!  stitch!  stitch! 

In  poverty,  hunger  and  dirt, 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch  — 
Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  rich  !- 

She  sung  this  "Song  of  the  Shirt." 


EDWARD  BULWER,  LORD  LYTTON. 

No  literary  man  of  this  century  played  so 
many  different  parts  and  accomplished  so 
much  with  such  general  success  as  he  who 
is  still  popularly  known  as  Bulwer,  though  fortune  since 
changed  his  name  to  Bulwer-Lytton,  and  afterwards  gave  him 
the  title  Baron  Lytton.  He  belonged  to  a  distinguished  family, 
being  the  son  of  General  Bulwer,  and  was  born  in  1805.  But 
he  was  carefully  trained  by  his  mother,  whose  name  Lytton 
he  assumed  in  1843.  He  lisped  in  numbers,  writing  ballads 
at  the  age  of  seven,  and  publishing  a  volume  of  poems  at  fif- 
teen. In  his  fifty  years  of  mature  life  he  emulated  many 
great  writers  of  fiction  and  invented  styles  of  his  own.  He 
first  attracted  attention  (in  "  Pelham  ")  as  a  brilliant  depicter 
of  the  gayeties  and  dissipations  of  English  society,  then  (in 
"  Paul  Clifford  ")  as  a  melodramatic  chronicler  of  a  highway- 
man7 s  career,  anon  (in  "Rienzi,"  "The  Last  Days  of  Pom- 
peii," "Calderon,"  "Harold,"  "The  Last  of  the  Barons") 
as  a  remarkably  accurate  presenter  of  historical  romance, 
ancient  and  modern,  then  (in  "Ernest  Maltravers")  as  an 
analyst  of  social  problems,  again  (in  "The  Caxtons,"  "My 
Novel,"  etc.),  as  a  skillful  adapter  of  Sterne's  method  to  the 
circumstances  of  a  later  period,  later  (in  "The  Coming  Race") 
as  the  author  of  a  fantastic  predictive  view  of  the  tendencies 
of  modern  civilization,  and  finally  (in  "The  Parisians"  and 
4  ( Kenelm  Chillingly) "  as  an  exhibitor  of  the  effect  of  French 
and  English  institutions  on  their  respective  people.  In  the 
early  stages  of  his  career  he  was  ridiculed  and  satirized  for 
his  pompous  style  and  aristocratic  affectations,  yet  by  per- 
severance and  generous  ambition  he  won  the  esteem  and 

281 


282  WTERATURE  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

friendship  of  Thackeray  and  Tennyson  and  other  hostile 
critics. 

Bulwer  wrote  some  fine  poems  and  made  excellent  poetic 
translations  from  Schiller  and  Horace.  In  the  difficult  and 
uncertain  field  of  the  drama  his  success  was  beyond  dispute, 
and  his  three  best  plays  yet  keep  the  stage.  He  failed,  how- 
ever, where  he  had  felt  most  sure  of  triumph,  in  his  romantic 
epic,  "  King  Arthur."  Throughout  his  life  he  wrote  much 
on  the  theory  of  art,  poetry  and  fiction,  and  exemplified  his 
deductions  and  principles  in  various  works.  His  unwearied 
powers  were  also  seen  in  historical  disquisitions,  the  discus- 
sions of  public  questions,  and  in  literary  essays.  But  this 
prolific  student  and  writer  was  also  a  man  of  fashion,  an  active 
politician,  an  industrious  member  of  parliament,  and  holder 
of  public  office.  In  spite  of  these  distractions,  he  constantly 
returned  to  his  favorite  occupation  as  a  novelist  and  had  the 
gratification  to  find  that  his  latest  works,  when  published 
anonymously,  excited  sensation  and  obtained  popular  favor. 

The  great  misfortune  of  his  private  life  was  his  quarrel 
with  his  wife,  a  clever,  high- tempered  Irish  woman.  She 
insisted  on  making  the  disagreement  as  public  as  possible, 
attacking  him  with  tongue  and  pen,  and  making  speeches 
against  him  at  the  polling-booths  when  he  was  a  candidate. 
Manfully  he  bore  all  in  silence,  and  retained  the  regard  of 
those  who  knew  him  best.  He  died  in  January,  1873. 

While  Lytton's  lifelong  success  in  literature  is  astonishing, 
it  has  not  proved  so  permanent  as  might  have  been  expected. 
His  novels  are,  after  all,  perhaps  too  much  modified  by  his 
theories  of  what  they  should  teach,  and  his  prodigious  inven- 
tion is  reduced  to  furnishing  examples  of  supposed  rules. 
Throughout  them  all,  instead  of  allowing  the  characters  to 
reveal  themselves  in  action  and  speech,  he  describes  their 
feelings  and  thoughts.  His  style  is  somewhat  affected,  rhe- 
torical to  excess  and  lent  itself  to  imitation  and  burlesque. 
In  spite  of  his  remarkable  inventiveness  he  did  not  give  his 
work  that  individuality  which  marks  the  productions  of  the 
greatest  writers.  Yet  his  works  even  to  the  last  abounded  in 
original  ideas,  exhibited  brilliant  invention,  and  noble  senti- 
ment, with  considerable  variety  of  portraiture. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  283 


GLAUCUS  SENDS  NYDIA  TO  IONE. 

(From  "The  Last  Days  of  Pompeii.") 

GLAUCUS  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Nydia.  She 
came  with  her  light,  though  cautious  step,  along  the  marble 
tablinum.  She  passed  the  portico,  and  paused  at  the  flowers 
which  bordered  the  garden.  She  had  her  water-vase  in  her 
hand,  and  she  sprinkled  the  thirsting  plants,  which  seemed 
to  brighten  at  her  approach.  She  bent  to  inhale  their  odor. 
She  touched  them  timidly  and  caressingly.  She  felt  along 
the'ir  stems,  if  any  withered  leaf  or  creeping  insect  marred 
their  beauty.  And  as  she  hovered  from  flower  to  flower,  with 
her  earnest  and  youthful  countenance  and  graceful  motions, 
you  could  not  have  imagined  a  fitter  handmaid  for  the  god- 
dess of  the  garden. 

"  Nydia,  my  child  !"  said  Glaucus. 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  she  paused  at  once — listening, 
blushing,  breathless  ;  with  her  lips  parted,  her  face  upturned 
to  catch  the  direction  of  the  sound,  she  laid  down  the  vase — 
she  hastened  to  him  ;  and  wonderful  it  was  to  see  how  uner- 
ringly she  threaded  her  dark  way  through  the  flowers,  and 
came  by  the  shortest  path  to  the  side  of  her  new  lord. 

" Nydia,"  said  Glaucus,  tenderly  stroking  back  her  long 
and  beautiful  hair,  uit  is  now  three  days  since  thou  hast  been 
under  the  protection  of  my  household  gods.  Have  they 
smiled  on  thee?  Art  thou  happy?" 

"  Ah  !  so  happy, "  sighed  the  slave. 

"And  now,"  continued  Glaucus,  "that  thou  hast  recov- 
ered somewhat  from  the  hateful  recollections  of  thy  former 
state — and  now  that  they  have  fitted  thee  (touching  her 
broidered  tunic)  with  garments  more  meet  for  thy  delicate 
shape — and  now,  sweet  child,  that  thou  hast  accustomed  thy- 
self to  a  happiness,  which  may  the  gods  grant  thee  ever !  I 
am  about  to  pray  at  thy  hands  a  boon." 

"Oh  !  what  can  I  do  for  thee?"  said  Nydia,  clasping  her 
hands. 

"lyisten,"  said  Glaucus,   aand  young  as  thou  art,  thou 


284  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

shalt  be  my  confidant.  Hast  thou  ever  heard  the  name  of 
lone?" 

The  blind  girl  gasped  for  breath,  and  turning  pale  as  one 
of  the  statues  which  shone  upon  them  from  the  peristyle,  she 
answered  with  an  effort,  and  after  a  moment's  pause : 

"Yes!  I  have  heard  that  she  is  of  Neapolis,  and  beau- 
tiful." 

"Beautiful!  her  beauty  is  a  thing  to  dazzle  the  day. 
Neapolis !  nay,  she  is  Greek  by  origin ;  Greece  only  could 
furnish  forth  such  shapes.  Nydia,  I  love  her !" 

"I  thought  so,"  replied  Nydia,  calmly. 

"I  love,  and  thou  shalt  tell  her  so.  I  am  about  to  send 
thee  to  her.  Happy  Nydia,  thou  wilt  be  in  her  chamber — 
thou  wilt  drink  the  music  of  her  voice — thou  wilt  bask  in  the 
sunny  air  of  her  presence." 

"What!  what !  wilt  thou  send  me  from  thee?" 

"Thou  wilt  go  to  lone,"  answered  Glaucus  in  a  tone  that 
said,  uWhat  more  canst  thou  desire?" 

Nydia  burst  into  tears. 

Glaucus,  raising  himself,  drew  her  toward  him  with  the 
soothing  caresses  of  a  brother. 

"My  child,  my  Nydia,  thou  weepest  in  ignorance  of  the 
happiness  I  bestow  on  thee.  She  is  gentle,  and  kind,  and 
soft  as  the  breeze  of  spring.  She  will  be  a  sister  to  thy  youth 
— she  will  appreciate  thy  winning  talents — she  will  love  thy 
simple  graces  as  none  other  could,  for  they  are  like  her  own. 
Weepest  thou  still,  fond  fool  ?  I  will  not  force  thee,  sweet. 
Wilt  thou  not  do  for  me  this  kindness?  " 

"Well,  if  I  can  serve  thee,  command.  See,  I  weep  no 
longer — I  am  calm." 

"That  is  my  own  Nydia,"  continued  Glaucus,  kissing  her 
hand.  "Go,  then,  to  her:  if  thou  art  disappointed  in  her 
kindness,  if  I  have  deceived  thee,  return  when  thou  wilt.  I 
do  not  give  thee  to  another  ;  I  but  lend.  My  home  shall  ever 
be  thy  refuge,  sweet  one.  Ah  !  would  it  could  shelter  all  the 
friendless  and  distressed !  But  if  my  heart  whispers  truly, 
I  shall  claim  tliee  again  soon,  my  child.  My  home  and 
Tone's  will  become  the  same,  and  thou  shalt  dwell  with 
both." 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  285 

A  shiver  passed  through  the  slight  frame  of  the  blind  girl, 
but  she  wept  no  more — she  was  resigned. 

"Go,  then,  my  Nydia,  to  lone's  house — they  shall  show 
thee  the  way.  Take  her  the  fairest  flowers  thou  canst  pluck; 
the  vase  which  contains  them  I  will  give  thee;  thou  must 
excuse  its  uu worthiness.  Thou  shalt  take,  too,  with  thee 
the  lute  that  I  gave  thee  yesterday,  and  from  which  thou 
knowest  so  well  to  awaken  the  charming  spirit.  Thou  shalt 
give  her  also  this  letter,  in  which,  after  a  hundred  efforts,  I 
have  embodied  something  of  my  thoughts.  Let  thy  ear  catch 
every  accent — every  modulation  of  her  voice — and  tell  me, 
when  we  meet  again,  if  its  music  should  flatter  me  or  discour- 
age. It  is  now,  Nydia,  some  days  since  I  have  been  admitted 
to  lone  ;  there  is  something  mysterious  in  this  exclusion.  I 
am  distracted  with  doubts  and  fears  ;  learn — for  thou  art 
quick,  and  thy  care  for  me  will  sharpen  tenfold  thy  acuteness 
— learn  the  cause  of  this  unkindness ;  speak  of  me  as  often  as 
thou  canst ;  let  my  name  come  ever  to  thy  lips ;  insinuate 
how  I  love  rather  than  proclaim  it ;  watch  if  she  sighs  whilst 
thou  speakest,  if  she  answers  thee ;  or,  if  she  approves,  in 
what  accents  she  approves.  Be  my  friend,  plead  for  me ;  and  oh ! 
how  vastly  wilt  thou  overpay  the  little  I  have  done  for  thee ! 
Thou  comprehendest,  Nydia;  thou  art  yet  a  child — have  I 
said  more  than  thou  canst  understand?" 

"No." 

"And  thou  wilt  serve  me?" 

"Yes." 

"  Come  to  me  when  thou  hast  gathered  the  flowers,  and  I 
will  give  thee  the  vase  I  speak  of;  seek  me  in  the  chamber  of 
Leda.  Pretty  one,  thou  dost  not  grieve  now?" 

"Glaucus,  I  am  a  slave;  what  business  have  I  with  grief 
or  joy  ?  " 

uSayest  thou  so?  No,  Nydia,  be  free.  I  give  thee  free- 
dom ;  enjoy  it  as  thou  wilt,  and  pardon  me  that  I  reckoned 
on  thy  desire  to  serve  me." 

"  You  are  offended.  Oh  !  I  would  not,  for  that  which  no 
freedom  can  give,  offend  you,  Glaucus.  My  guardian,  my 
saviour,  my  protector,  forgive  the  poor  blind  girl !  She  does 
not  grieve  even  in  leaving  thee,  if  she  can  aid  thy  happiness," 


286 


OF  AU<  NATIONS. 


"May  the  gods  bless  this  grateful  heart!"  said  Glaucus, 
greatly  moved ;  and,  unconscious  of  the  fires  he  excited,  he 
repeatedly  kissed  her  forehead. 

"Thou  forgivest  me,"  said  she,  "and  thou  wilt  talk  no 
more  of  freedom ;  my  happiness  is  to  be  thy  slave  ;  thou  hast 

promised  thou  wilt  not  give  me  to  another " 

4  ( I  have  promised. ' ' 

"And  now,  then,  I  will  gather  the  flowers." 

Silently  Nydia  took 
from  the  hand  of 
Glaucus  the  costly 
and  jeweled  vase,  in 
which  the  flowers 
vied  with  each  other 
in  hue  and  frag- 
rance ;  tearlessly  she 
received  his  parting 
admonition.  She 

paused  for  a  moment 
when  his  voice  ceased 
— she  did  not  trust 
herself  to  reply — she 
sought  his  hand — she 
raised  it  to  her  lips, 
dropped  her  veil  over 
her  face,  and  passed 
at  once  from  his  pres- 
ence. She  paused 
again  as  she  reached 
the  threshold ;  she 
stretched  her  hands  toward  it  and  murmured : 

"  Three  happy  days — days  of  unspeakable  delight,  have 
I  known  since  I  passed  thee,  blessed  threshold!  may  peace 
dwell  ever  with  thee  when  I  am  gone !  And  now,  my  heart 
tears  itself  from  thee,  and  the  only  sound  it  utters  bids 
me— die!"  .... 

A  slave  entered  the  chamber  of  lone.     A  messenger  from 
Glaucus  desired  to  be  admitted. 
lone  hesitated  an  instant. 


ENGLISH  UTERATURE.  287 

<*She  is  blind,  that  messenger, '  '  said  the  slave;  "  she  will 
do  her  commission  to  none  but  thee." 

Base  is  that  heart  which'  does  not  respect  affliction !  The 
moment  she  heard  the  messenger  was  blind,  lone  felt  the 
impossibility  ot  returning  a  chilling  reply.  Glaucus  had 
chosen  a  herald  that  was  indeed  sacred — a  herald  that  could 
not  be  denied. 

4 *  What  can  he  want  with  me?  what  message  can  he 
send?"  and  the  heart  of  lone  beat  quick.  The  curtain 
across  the  door  was  withdrawn ;  a  soft  and  echoless  step  fell 
upon  the  marble,  and  Nydia,  led  by  one  of  the  attendants, 
entered  with  her  precious  gift. 

She  stood  still  a  moment,  as  if  listening  for  some  sound 
that  might  direct  her. 

"  Will  the  noble  lone,"  said  she,  in  a  soft  and  low  voice, 
"  deign  to  speak,  that  I  may  know  whither  to  steer  these 
benighted  steps,  and  that  I  may  lay  my  offerings  at  her 
feet?" 

"Fair  child, "  said  lone,  touched  and  soothingly,  "give 
not  thyself  the  pain  to  cross  these  slippery  floors ;  my  attend- 
ant will  bring  to  me  what  thou  hast  to  present,"  and  she 
motioned  to  the  handmaid  to  take  the  vase. 

"I  may  give  these  flowers  to  none  but  thee,"  answered 
Nydia,  and,  guided  by  her  ear,  she  walked  slowly  to  the 
place  where  lone  sat,  and  kneeling  when  she  came  before  her 
proffered  the  vase. 

lone  took  it  from  her  hand  and  placed  it  on  the  table  at 
her  side.  She  then  raised  her  gently  and  would  have  seated 
her  on  the  couch,  but  the  girl  modestly  resisted. 

(l  I  have  not  yet  discharged  my  office,"  said  she,  and 
she  drew  the  letter  of  Glaucus  from  her  vest.  u  This  will, 
perhaps,  explain  why  he  who  sent  me  chose  so  unworthy  a 
messenger  to  lone." 

"The  Neapolitan  took  the  letter  with  a  hand,  the  trem- 
bling of  which  Nydia  at  once  felt  and  sighed  to  feel.  With 
folded  arms  and  downcast  looks  she  stood  before  the  proud 
and  stately  form  of  lone — no  less  proud,  perhaps,  in  her  atti- 
tude of  submission.  Tone  waved  her  hand  and  the  attendants 
withdrew ;  she  gazed  again  upon  the  form  of  the  young  slave 


288  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

in  surprise  and  beautiful  compassion ;  then,  retiring  a  little 
from  her,  she  opened  and  read  the  letter 

It  seemed  to  lone,  as  she  read  the  letter,  as  if  a  mist  had 
fallen  from  her  eyes.  What  had  been  the  supposed  offence 
of  Glaucus — that  he  had  not  really  loved  !  And  now,  plainly, 
and  in  no  dubious  terms,  he  confessed  that  love.  From  that 
moment  his  power  was  fully  restored.  At  every  tender  word 
in  that  letter,  so  full  of  romantic  and  trustful  passion,  her 
heart  smote  her.  And  had  she  doubted  his  faith,  and  had  she 
believed  another  ?  and  had  she  not,  at  least,  allowed  to  him 
the  culprit's  right  to  know  his  crime,  to  plead  in  his  defense? 
— the  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks — she  kissed  the  letter — 
she  placed  it  in  her  bosom  ;  and,  turning  to  Nydia,  who  stood 
in  the  same  place  and  in  the  same  posture : 

"Wilt  thou  sit,  my  child,'*  said  she,  " while  I  write  an 
answer  to  this  letter  ? ' ' 

"  You  will  answer  it,  then  !"  said  Nydia,  coldly.  "  Well, 
the  slave  that  accompanied  me  will  take  back  your  answer  ! ' ' 

"For  you,"  said  lone,  "stay  with  me — trust  me;  your 
service  shall  be  light." 

Nydia  bowed  her  head. 

"What  is  your  name,  fair  girl?" 

"They  call  me  Nydia." 

"  Your  country?" 

"The  land  of  Olympus— Thessaly." 

"Thou  shalt  be  to  me  a  friend,"  said  lone,  caressingly, 
"  as  thou  art  already  a  countrywoman.  Meanwhile,  I  beseech 
thee,  stand  not  on  these  cold  and  glassy  marbles.  There ! 
now  that  thou  art  seated,  I  can  leave  thee  for  an  instant. 

"  lone  to  Glaucus — greeting.  Come  to  me,  Glaucus,"  wrote  lone 
— "come  to  me  to-morrow.  I  may  have  been  unjust  to  thee  ;  but  I 
will  tell  thee,  at  least,  the  fault  that  has  been  imputed  to  thy  charge. 
Fear  not,  henceforth,  the  Egyptian — fear  none.  Thou  sayest  thou  hast 
expressed  too  much— alas  !  in  these  hasty  words  I  have  already  done 
so.  Farewell !" 

As  lone  reappeared  with  the  letter,  which  she  did  not 
dare  to  read  after  she  had  written  (Ah !  common  rashness-, 
common  timidity  of  love),  Nydia  started  from  her  seat. 

"You  have  written  to  Glaucus?" 


ENGLISH  WTERATURE.  289 

"I  have." 

"And  will  he  thank  the  messenger  who  gives  him  thy 
letter?" 

lone  forgot  that  her  companion  was  blind  ;  she  blushed 
from  the  brow  to  the  neck,  and  remained  silent. 

"I  mean  this,"  added  Nydia,  in  a  calmer  tone;  "the 
lightest  word  of  coldness  from  thee  will  sadden  him  —  the 
lightest  kindness  will  rejoice.  If  it  be  the  first,  let  the  slave 
take  back  thine  answer;  if  it  be  the  last,  let  me — I  will  re- 
turn this  evening." 

"And  why,  Nydia,"  asked  lone  evasively,  "  wouldst  thou 
be  the  bearer  of  my  letter?" 

"It  is  so,  then!"  said  Nydia.  "Ah!  how  could  it  be 
otherwise;  who  could  be  unkind  to  Glaucus?" 

"My  child,"  said  lone,  a  little  more  reservedly  than  be- 
fore, "thou  speakest  warmly  —  Glaucus,  then,  is  amiable  in 
thine  eyes  ? ' ' 

"Noble  lone!  Glaucus  has  been  that  to  me  which  neither 
fortune  nor  the  gods  have  been  —  a  friend ! ' ' 

The  sadness  mingled  with  dignity  with  which  Nydia  ut- 
tered these  simple  words,  affected  the  beautiful  lone ;  she  bent 
down  and  kissed  her.  "Thou  art  grateful,  and  deservedly 
so ;  why  should  I  blush  to  say  that  Glaucus  is  worthy  of  thy 
gratitude?  Go,  my  Nydia  —  take  to  him  thyself  this  letter — 
but  return  again.  If  I  am  from  home  when  thou  returnest 
—  as  this  evening,  perhaps,  I  shall  be  —  thy  chamber  shall  be 
prepared  next  my  own.  Nydia,  I  have  no  sister  —  wilt  thou 
be  one  to  me?" 

The  Thessalian  kissed  the  hand  of  lone,  and  then  said  with 
some  embarrassment : 

"One  favor,  fair  lone  —  may  I  dare  to  ask  it?" 

"Thou  canst  not  ask  what  I  will  not  grant,"  replied  the 
Neapolitan. 

"They  tell  me,"  said  Nydia,  "that  thou  art  beautiful  be- 
yond the  loveliness  of  earth.  Alas !  I  cannot  see  that  which 
gladdens  the  world  !  Wilt  thou  suffer  me,  then,  to  pass  my 
hand  over  thy  face?  —  that  is  my  sole  criterion  of  beauty,  and 
I  usually  guess  aright." 

She  did  not  wait  for  the  answer  of  lone,  but,  as  she 
ix— -19 


290  UTERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

spoke,  gently  and  slowly  passed  her  hand  over  the  bending 
and  half-averted  features  of  the  Greek — features  which  but 
one  image  in  the  world  can  yet  depicture  and  recall — that 
image  is  the  mutilated,  but  all-wondrous,  statue  in  her  native 
city — her  own  Neapolis;  that  Parian  face,  before  which  all 
the  beauty  of  the  Florentine  Venus  is  poor  and  earthly — that 
aspect  so  full  of  harmony— of  youth — of  genius — of  the  soul 
- — which  modern  critics  have  supposed  the  representation  of 
Psyche. 

Her  touch  lingered  over  the  braided  hair  and  polished 
brow — over  the  downy  and  damask  cheek — over  the  dimpled 
lip — the  swan-like  and  whitest  neck.  "I  know  now  that 
thou  art  beautiful,"  she  said  ;  "and  I  can  picture  thee  to  my 
darkness  henceforth,  and  forever ! ' ' 

When  Nydia  left  her,  lone  sank  into  a  deep  but  delicious 
reverie.  Glaucus  then  loved  her  ;  he  owned  it — yes,  he  loved 
her. 

KENELM'S  FIGHT  WITH  TOM  BOWLES. 

(From  "  Kenelm  Chillingly.") 

KENELM  and  Jessie  both  walked  on  in  silence,  and  had 
now  reached  the  centre  of  the  village  street  when  Jessie, 
looking  up,  uttered  an  abrupt  exclamation,  gave  an  affrighted 
start,  and  then  came  to  a  dead  stop. 

Kenelm1  s  eye  followed  the  direction  of  hers,  and  saw,  a 
few  yards  distant,  at  the  other  side  of  the  way,  a  small  red 
brick  house,  with  thatched  sheds  adjoining  it,  the  whole 
standing  in  a  wide  yard,  over  the  gate  of  which  leaned  a  man 
smoking  a  small  cutty-pipe.  "  It  is  Tom  Bowles,"  whispered 
Jessie;  and  instinctively  she  twined  her  arm  into  Kenelm' s  — 
then,  as  if  on  second  thoughts,  withdrew  it,  and  said,  still  in 
a  whisper,  "Go  back  now,  sir — do." 

"Not  I.  It  is  Tom  Bowles  whom  I  want  to  know. 
Hush!" 

For  here  Tom  Bowles  had  thrown  down  his  pipe,  and  was 
coming  slowly  across  the  road  toward  them. 

Kenelm  eyed  him  with  attention.  A  singularly  powerful 
man,  not  so  tall  as  Kenelm  by  some  inches,  but  still  above 
the  middle  height,  herculean  shoulders  and  chest,  the  lower 


KNGUSH   LITERATURE.  *9X 

limbs  not  in  equal  proportion — a  sort  of  slouching,  shambling 
gait.  As  he  advanced,  the  moonlight  fell  on  his  face — it  was 
a  handsome  one.  He  wore  no  hat,  and  his  hair,  of  a  light 
brown,  curled  close.  His  face  was  fresh-colored,  with  aqui- 
line features ;  his  age  apparently  about  six  or  seven  and 
twenty.  Coming  nearer  and  nearer,  whatever  favorable  im- 
pression the  first  glance  at  his  physiognomy  might  have 
made  on  Kenelin  was  dispelled,  for  the  expression  of  his  ^ce 
changed,  and  became  fierce  and  lowering. 

Kenelm  was  still  walking  on,  Jessie  by  his  side,  when 
Bowles  rudely  thrust  himself  between  them,  and  seizing  the 
girl's  arm  with  one  hand,  he  turned  his  face  full  on  Kenelm, 
with  a  menacing  wave  of  the  other  hand,  and  said,  in  a  deep 
burly  voice, 

"  Who  be  you?" 

"  Let  go  that  young  woman  before  I  tell  you." 

"  If  you  weren't  a  stranger,"  answered  Bowles,  seeming  as 
if  he  tried  to  suppress  a  rising  fit  of  wrath,  "  you'd  be  in  the 
kennel  for  those  words.  But  I  s'pose  you  don't  know  that 
I'm  Torn  Bowles,  and  I  don't  choose  the  girl  as  I'm  after  to 
keep  company  with  any  other  man.  So  you  be  off. " 

"And  I  don't  choose  any  other  man  to  lay  violent  hands 
on  any  girl  walking  by  my  side  without  telling  him  that  he's 
a  brute ;  and  that  I  only  wait  till  he  has  both  his  hands  at 
liberty  to  let  him  know  that  he  has  not  a  cripple  to  deal  with." 

Tom  Bowles  could  scarcely  believe  his  ears.  Amaze 
swallowed  up  for  the  moment  every  other  sentiment.  Me- 
chanically he  loosened  his  hold  of  Jessie,  who  fled  off  like 
a  bird  released.  But  evidently  she  thought  of  her  new 
friend's  danger  more  than  her  own  escape ;  for  instead  of 
sheltering  herself  in  her  father's  cottage,  she  ran  toward  a 
group  of  laborers,  who,  near  at  hand,  had  stopped  loitering 
before  the  public-house,  and  returned  with  those  allies  toward 
the  spot  in  which  she  had  left  the  two  men.  She  was  very 
popular  with  the  villagers,  who,  strong  in  the  sense  of  num- 
bers, overcame  their  awe  of  Tom  Bowles,  and  arrived  at  the 
place  half  running,  half  striding,  in  time,  they  hoped,  to  in- 
terpose between  his  terrible  arm  and  the  bones  of  the  unof- 
fending stranger. 


WTERATURE  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

Meanwhile  Bowles,  having  recovered  his  first  astonish- 
ment, and  scarcely  noticing  Jessie's  escape,  still  left  his  right 
arm  extended  toward  the  place  she  had  vacated,  and  with  a 
quick  backstroke  of  the  left  leveled  at  Kenelrn's  face,  growled 
contemptuously,  uThou'lt  find  one  hand  enough  for  thee." 

But  quick  as  was  his  aim,  Kenelm  caught  the  lifted  arm 
just  above  the  elbow,  causing  the  blow  to  waste  itself  on  air^ 
and  with  a  simultaneous  advance  of  his  right  knee  and  foot 
dexterously  tripped  up  his  bulky  antagonist,  and  laid  him 
sprawling  on  his  back.  The  movement  was  so  sudden,  and 
the  stun  it  occasioned  so  utter,  morally  as  well  as  physically, 
that  a  minute  or  more  elapsed  before  Tom  Bowles  picked 
himself  up.  And  he  then  stood  another  minute  glowering  at 
his  antagonist,  with  a  vague  sentiment  of  awe  almost  like  a 
superstitious  panic.  But  as  fighting  Tom  gradually  recovered 
to  the  consciousness  of  his  own  strength,  and  the  recollection, 
that  it  had  been  only  foiled  by  the  skillful  trick  of  a  wrestler, 
not  the  hand-to-hand  might  of  a  pugilist,  the  panic  vanished, 
and  Tom  Bowles  was  himself  again.  "  Oh,  that's  your  sort, 
is  it?"  said  he.  "  We  don't  fight  with  our  heels  hereabouts, 
like  Cornishers  and  donkeys  ;  we  fight  with  our  fists,  young- 
ster ;  and  since  you  will  have  a  bout  at  that,  why  you  must." 

"  Providence,"  answered  Kenelm,  solemnly,  "sent  me  to 
this  village  for  the  express  purpose  of  licking  Tom  Bowles. 
It  is  a  signal  mercy  vouchsafed  to  yourself,  as  you  will  one 
day  acknowledge." 

Again  a  thrill  of  £we,  something  like  that  which  the 
demagogue  Aristophanes  might  have  felt  when  braved  by  the 
sausage-maker,  shot  through  the  valiant  heart  of  Tom  Bowles. 
He  did  not  like  those  ominous  words,  and  still  less  the  lugu- 
brious tone  of  voice  in  which  they  were  uttered.  But  resolved, 
at  least,  to  proceed  to  battle  with  more  preparation  than  he 
had  at  first  designed,  he  now  deliberately  disencumbered  him- 
self of  his  heavy  fustian  jacket  and  vest,  rolled  up  his  shirt- 
sleeves, and  then  slowly  advanced  toward  the  foe. 

Kenelm  had  also,  with  still  greater  deliberation,  taken  off 
his  coat — which  he  folded  up  with  care,  as  being  both  a  new 
and  an  only  one,  and  deposited  by  the  hedge-side — and  bared 
arms,  lean  indeed,  and  almost  slight,  as  compared  with  the 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  293 

vast  muscle  of  his  adversary,  but  firm  in  sinew  as  the  hind- 
leg  of  a  stag. 

By  this  time  the  laborers,  led  by  Jessie,  had  arrived  at  the 
spot,  and  were  about  to  crowd  in  between  the  combatants, 
when  Kenelm  waved  them  back,  and  said,  in  a  calm  and  im- 
pressive voice, 

"  Stand  round,  my  good  friends,  make  a  ring,  and  see  that 
it  Is  fair  play  on  my  side.  I  am  sure  it  will  be  fair  on  Mr. 
Bowles's.  He's  big  enough  to  scorn  what  is  little.  And 
now,  Mr.  Bowles,  just  a  word  with  you  in  the  presence  of 
your  neighbors.  I  am  not  going  to  say  any  thing  uncivil.  If 
you  are  rather  rough  and  hasty,  a  man  is  not  always  master 
of  himself — at  least  so  I  am  told — when  he  thinks  more  than 
he  ought  to  do  about  a  pretty  girl.  But  I  can't  look  at  your 
face  even  by  this  moonlight,  and  though  its  expression  at 
this  moment  is  rather  cross,  without  being  sure  that  you  are 
a  fine  fellow  at  bottom ;  and  that  if  you  give  a  promise  as 
man  to  man  you  will  keep  it.  Is  that  so  ?" 

One  or  two  of  the  by-standers  murmured  assent ;  the  others 
pressed  round  in  silent  wonder. 

"What's  all  that  soft-sawder  about?"  said  Torn  Bowles, 
somewhat  falteringly. 

u  Simply  this :  if  in  the  fight  between  us  I  beat  you  I  ask 
you  to  promise  before  your  neighbors  that  you  will  not  by 
word  or  deed  molest  or  interfere  again  with  Miss  Jessie 
Wiles." 

"  Eh  ! "  roared  Tom.     "  Is  it  that  you  are  after  her  ?  " 

"  Suppose  I  am,  if  that  pleases  you ;  and,  on  my  side,  I 
promise  that,  if  you  beat  me,  I  quit  this  place  as  soon  as  you 
leave  me  well  enough  to  do  so,  and  will  never  visit  it  again. 
What !  do  you  hesitate  to  promise  ?  Are  you  really  afraid  I 
shall  lick  you  ?  " 

"  You  !     I'd  smash  a  dozen  of  you  to  powder." 

"In  that  case,  you  are  safe  to  promise.  Come,  'tis  a  fair 
bargain.  Isn't  it,  neighbors?" 

Won  over  by  Kenelm' s  easy  show  of  good  temper,  and  by 
the  sense  of  justice,  the  by-standers  joined  in  a  common  ex- 
clamation of  assent. 

"Come,  Tom,"  said  an  old  fellow,  "the  gentleman  can't 


294  UTERATURE  OP  AIJ,  NATIONS. 

speak  fairer ;  .and  we  shall  all  think  you  be  afraid  if  you  hold 
back." 

Tom's  face  worked;  but  at  last  he  growled,  "Well,-  I 
promise — that  is,  if  he  beats  me." 

"All  right,"  said  Kenelm.  "You  hear,  neighbors ;  and 
Tom  Bowles  could  not  show  that  handsome  face  of  his  among 
you  if  he  broke  his  word.  Shake  hands  on  it." 

Fighting  Tom  sulkily  shook  hands. 

"Well,  now,  that's  what  I  call  English,"  said  Kenelm; 
"all  pluck  and  no  malice.  Fall  back,  friends,  and  leave  a 
clear  space  for  us." 

The  men  all  receded ;  and  as  Kenelm  took  his  ground, 
there  was  a  supple  ease  in  his  posture  which  at  once  brought 
out  into  clearer  evidence  the  nervous  strength  of  his  build, 
and,  contrasted  with  Tom's  bulk  of  chest,  made  the  latter  look 
clumsy  and  top-heavy. 

The  two  men  faced  each  other  a  minute,  the  eyes  of  both 
vigilant  and  steadfast.  Tom's  blood  began  to  fire  up  as  he 
gazed — nor,  with  all  his  outward  calm,  was  Kenelm  insensible 
of  that  proud  beat  of  the  heart  which  is  aroused  by  the  fierce 
joy  of  combat.  Tom  struck  out  first,  and  a  blow  was  parried, 
but  not  returned  ;  another  and  another  blow — still  parried — 
still  unreturned.  Kenelm,  acting  evidently  on  the  defensive, 
took  all  the  advantages  for  that  strategy  which  he  derived 
from  superior  length  of  arm  and  lighter  agility  of  frame. 
Perhaps  he  wished  to  ascertain  the  extent  of  his  adversary's 
skill,  or  to  try  the  endurance  of  his  wind,  before  he  ventured 
on  the  hazards  of  attack.  Tom,  galled  to  the  quick  that 
blows  which  might  have  felled  an  ox  were  thus  warded  off 
from  their  mark,  and  dimly  aware  that  he  was  encountering 
some  mysterious  skill  which  turned  his  brute  strength  into 
waste  force,  and  might  overmaster  him  in  the  long  run,  came 
to  a  rapid  conclusion  that  the  sooner  he  brought  that  brute 
strength  to  bear,  the  better  it  would  be  for  him.  Accordingly, 
after  three  rounds,  in  which,  without  once  breaking  the  guard 
of  his  antagonist,  he  had  received  a  few  playful  taps  on  the 
nose  and  mouth,  he  drew  back,  and  made  a  bull-like  rush  at 
his  foe — bull-like,  for  it  butted  full  at  him  with  the  powerful 
down-bent  head,  and  the  two  fists  doing  duty  as  horns.  The 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  295 

rush  spent,  he  found  himself  in  the  position  of  a  man  milled. 
A  "mill,"  periphrastically,  means  this:  your  adversary,  in 
the  noble  encounter  between  fist  and  fist,  has  so  plunged  his 
head  that  it  gets  caught,  as  in  a  vise,  between  the  side  and 
doubled  left  arm  of  the  adversary,  exposing  that  head,  unpro- 
tected and  helpless,  to  be  pounded  out  of  recognizable  shape 
by  the  right  fist  of  the  opponent.  It  is  a  situation  in  which 
raw  superiority  of  force  sometimes  finds  itself,  and  is  seldom 
spared  by  disciplined  superiority  of  skill.  Kenelm,  his  right 
fist  raised,  paused  for  a  moment,  then,  loosening  the  left  arm, 
releasing  the  prisoner,  and  giving  him  a  friendly  slap  on  the 
shoulder,  he  turned  round  to  the  spectators,  and  said  apolo- 
getically, ( (  He  has  a  handsome  face — it  would  be  a  shame  to 
spoil  it." 

Tom's  position  of  peril  was  so  obvious  to  all,  and  that 
good-humored  abnegation  of  the  advantage  which  the  posi- 
tion gave  to  the  adversary  seemed  so  generous,  that  the  laborers 
actually  hurrahed.  Tom  himself  felt  as  if  treated  like  a  child ; 
and  alas,  and  alas  for  him  !  in  wheeling  round,  and  regather- 
ing  himself  up,  his  eye  rested  on  Jessie's  face.  Her  lips  were 
apart  with  breathless  terror ;  he  fancied  they  were  apart  with 
a  smile  of  contempt.  And  now  he  became  formidable.  He 
fought  as  fights  the  bull  in  presence  of  the  heifer,  who,  as  he 
knows  too  well,  will  go  with  the  conqueror. 

If  Tom  had  never  yet  fought  with  a  man  taught  by  a  prize- 
fighter, so  never  yet  had  Kenelm  encountered  a  strength 
which,  but  for  the  lack  of  that  teaching,  would  have  con- 
quered his  own.  He  could  act  no  longer  on  the  defensive ; 
he  could  no  longer  play,  like  a  dexterous  fencer,  with  the 
sledge-hammers  of  those  mighty  arms.  They  broke  through 
his  guard — they  sounded  on  his  chest  as  on  an  anvil.  He 
felt  that  did  they  alight  on  his  head  he  was  a  lost  man.  He 
felt  also  that  the  blows  spent  on  the  chest  of  his  adversary 
were  idle  as  the  stroke  of  a  cane  on  the  hide  of  a  rhinoceros. 
But  now  his  nostrils  dilated,  his  eyes  flashed  fire — Kenelm 
Chillingly  had  ceased  to  be  a  philosopher.  Crash  came  his 
blow — how  unlike  the  swinging  roundabout  hits  of  Tom 
Bowles  ! — straight  to  its  aim  as  the  rifle-ball  of  a  Tyrolese,  or 
a  British  marksman  at  Aldershot— all  the  strength  of  nerve, 


296  UTERAtURE  OF  AU<  NATIONS. 

sinew,  purpose,  and  mind  concentrated  in  its  vigor — crash 
just  at  that  part  of  the  front  where  the  eyes  meet,  and  fol- 
lowed up  with  the  rapidity  of  lightning,  flash  upon  flash,  by 
a  more  restrained  but  more  disabling  blow  with  the  left  hand 
just  where  the  left  ear  meets  throat  and  jaw-bone. 

At  the  first  blow  Tom  Bowles  had  reeled  and  staggered ; 
at  the  second  he  threw  up  his  hands,  made  a  jump  in  the  air 
as  if  shot  through  the  heart,  and  then  heavily  fell  forward,  an 
inert  mass. 

The  spectators  pressed  round  him  in  terror.  They  thought 
he  was  dead.  Kenelm  knelt,  passed  quickly  his  hand  over 
Tom's  lips,  pulse  and  heart,  and  then  rising,  said,  humbly  and 
with  an  air  of  apology  : 

"If  he  had  been  a  less  magnificent  creature,  I  assure  you 
on  my  honor  that  I  should  never  have  ventured  that  second 
blow.  The  first  would  have  done  for  any  man  less  splendidly 
endowed  by  nature.  L/ift  him  gently  ;  take  him  home.  Tell 
his  mother,  with  my  kind  regards,  that  I'll  call  and  see  her 
and  him  to-morrow.  And,  stop,  does  he  ever  drink  too  much 
beer?" 

"Well,"  said  one  of  the  villagers,  "Tom  can  drink." 

"  I  thought  so.  Too  much  flesh  for  that  muscle.  Go  for 
the  nearest  doctor.  You,  my  lad? — good — off  with  you — 
quick  !  No  danger,  but  perhaps  it  may  be  a  case  for  the 
lancet." 

Tom  Bowles  was  lifted  tenderly  by  four  of  the  stoutest 
men  present  and  borne  into  his  home,  evincing  no  sign  of 
consciousness;  but  his  face,  where  not  clouted  with  blood, 
very  pale,  very  calm,  with  a  slight  froth  at  the  lips. 

Kenelm  pulled  down  his  shirt-sleeves,  put  on  his  coat,  and 
turned  to  Jessie : 

"  Now,  my  young  friend,  show  me  Will's  cottage." 

The  girl  came  to  him  white  and  trembling.  She  did  not 
dare  to  speak.  The  stranger  had  become  a  new  man  in  her 
eyes.  Perhaps  he  frightened  her  as  much  as  Tom  Bowles 
had  done.  But  she  quickened  her  pace,  leaving  the  public- 
house  behind,  till  she  came  to  the  farther  end  of  the  village. 
Kenelm  walked  beside  her,  muttering  to  himself;  and  though 
Jessie  caught  his  words,  happily  she  did  not  understand,  for 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  297 

they  repeated  one  of  those  bitter  reproaches  on  her  sex  as  the 
main  cause  of  all  strife,  bloodshed  and  mischief  in  general, 
with  which  the  classic  authors  abound.  His  spleen,  soothed 
by  that  recourse  to  the  lessons  of  the  ancients,  Kenelm  turned 
at  last  to  his  silent  companion,  and  said,  kindly  but  gravely : 

"  Mr.  Bowles  has  given  me  this  promise,  and  it  is  fair  that 
I  should  now  ask  a  promise  from  you.  It  is  this — just  con- 
sider how  easily  a  girl  so  pretty  as  you  can  be  the  cause  of  a 
man's  death.  Had  Bowles  struck  me  where  I  struck  him,  I 
should  have  been  past  the  help  of  a  surgeon." 

"  Oh  !  "  groaned  Jessie,  shuddering,  and  covering  her  face 
with  both  hands. 

"  And,  putting  aside  that  danger,  consider  that  a  man  may 
be  hit  mortally  on  the  heart  as  well  as  on  the  head,  and  that 
a  woman  has  much  to  answer  for  who,  no  matter  what  her 
excuse,  forgets  what  misery  and  what  guilt  can  be  inflicted 
by  a  word  from  her  lips  and  a  glance  from  her  eye.  Consider 
this,  and  promise  that,  whether  you  marry  Will  Somers  or 
not,  you  will  never  again  give  a  man  fair  cause  to  think  you 
can  like  him  unless  your  own  heart  tells  you  that  you  can. 
Will  you  promise  that  ?  " 

"I  will,  indeed — indeed. "     Poor  Jessie's  voice  died  in  sobs. 

SYDNEY  SMITH. 

WHAT  the  Edinburgh  Re- 
view was  among  the  more  or 
less  literary  publications  of  the 
early  years  of  the  century,  Syd- 
ney Smith  was,  and  almost  is 
still,  among  the  controversial 
writers  and  wits.  He  origi- 
nated that  brilliant  and  power- 
ful organ,  was  its  first  editor, 
and  for  twenty-five  years  its 
most  effective  contributor.  Al- 
though most  of  his  writings 
were  upon  subjects  of  the  day,  they  are  still  unsurpassed  models 
of  virile  English,  strong  common  sense,  admirable  humor 


298  WTERATURB  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

and   pointed  wit.      That  he  took  the  wrong  side  on  some 
questions  is  undeniable,  but  his  literary  work  is  our  present 
concern.     He  was  the  son  of  an  eccentric  spendthrift  squire, 
born  in  1771,  and  entered  the  Church.     During  five  years* 
residence  in  Edinburgh,  teaching  and  preaching,  he  and  his 
Whig  associates  founded  the  Edinburgh  Review  on  his  sug- 
gestion, to  ventilate  their  pent-up  genius  on  political  and 
literary  matters.     Smith  edited  the  first  number,  which  ap- 
peared in  1802.     Within  two  years  he  was  famous  as  a  lec- 
turer, in  London,  on  moral  philosophy,  and  as  a  preacher ;  but 
being  a  Whig,  preferment  was  long  delayed  and  worth  little 
when  it  came.     He  was  given  a  country  living  distant  from 
London,  in  which  city  he  was  the  most  popular  society  man. 
His  principal  separate  publication,  the  "  Peter  Plymley  Let- 
ters," was  the  fruit  of  this  seclusion.    It  ridiculed  the  fears  and 
hostility  of  the  Tory  clergy  toward  the  Catholic  Emancipation 
movement  so  successfully  that  his  fame  compelled  official  as 
well  as  popular  recognition.     He  was  made  a  canon  of  Bris- 
tol, and  afterwards  of  St.  Paul's,  London ;  but  the  bishopric 
which  he,  as  Dean  Swift  before  him,  had  coveted  as  a  well- 
earned  prize,  was  withheld,  and  for  similar  political  reasons. 
Throughout  his  writings,  which  cover  a  very  wide  field,  his 
sturdy,  fearless  advocacy  of  freedom  and  justice  to  all  is  as 
conspicuous  as  the  exceptional  breadth  and  soundness  of  his 
arguments,  and  the  pungency  of  his  well-directed  wit.     Canon 
Sydney  Smith  effected  a  greater  amount  oi"  public  good,  and 
contributed  more  to  intellectual  gayety,  than  any  of  his  con- 
temporaries in  the  pulpit  or  press.     He  died  in  1845. 

THE  FOUNDING  OF  THE  ''EDINBURGH  REVIEW." 

WHEN  first  I  went  into  the  church,  I  had  a  curacy  in  the 
middle  of  Salisbury  Plain.  The  squire  of  the  parish  took  a 
fancy  to  me,  and  requested  me  to  go  with  his  son  to  reside  at 
the  University  of  Weimar :  before  we  could  get  there,  Ger- 
many became  the  seat  of  war,  and  in  stress  of  politics  we  put 
in  to  Edinburgh,  where  I  remained  five  years.  The  princi- 
ples of  the  French  Revolution  were  then  fully  afloat,  and  it  is 
impossible  to  conceive  a  more  violent  and  agitated  state  of 


ENGUSH   LITERATURE.  299 

society.  Among  the  first  persons  with  whom  I  became  ac- 
quainted were  Lord  Jeffrey,  Lord  Murray  (late  Lord  Advocate 
for  Scotland),  and  Lord  Brougham ;  all  of  them  maintaining 
opinions  upon  political  subjects  a  little  too  liberal  for  the 
dynasty  of  Dimclas,  then  exercising  supreme  power  over  the 
northern  division  of  the  island. 

One  day  we  happened  to  meet  in  the  eighth  or  ninth  story 
or  flat  in  Buccleugh-place,  the  elevated  residence  of  the  then 
Mr.  Jeffrey.  I  proposed  that  we  should  set  up  a  review  ;  this 
was  acceded  to  with  acclamation.  I  was  appointed  editor,  and 
remained  long  enough  in  Edinburgh  to  edit  the  first  number 
of  the  Edinburgh  Review.  The  motto  I  proposed  for  the 
Review  was, 

"Tenui  musam  meditamur  avena." 
"  We  cultivate  literature  upon  a  little  oatmeal." 

But  this  was  too  near  the  truth  to  be  admitted,  and  so  we  took 
our  present  grave  motto  from  Publius  Syrus,  of  whom  none 
of  us  had,  I  am  sure, 'ever  read  a  single  line;  and  so  began 
what  has  since  turned  out  to  be  a  very  important  and  able 
journal .  When  I  left  Edinburgh,  it  fell  into  the  stronger  hands 
of  Lord  Jeffrey  and  Lord  Brougham,  and  reached  the  highest 
point  of  popularity  and  success.  I  contributed  from  England 
many  articles,  which  I  have  been  foolish  enough  to  collect 
and  publish  with  some  other  tracts  written  by  me. 

To  appreciate  the  value  of  the  Edinburgh  Review,  the 
state  of  England  at  the  period  when  that  journal  begun  should 
be  had  in  remembrance.  The  Catholics  were  not  emanci- 
pated— the  Corporation  and  Test  Acts  were  unrepealed — the 
Game  Laws  were  horribly  oppressive — Steel  Traps  and 
Spring  Guns  were  set  all  over  the  country — Prisoners  tried  for 
their  Lives  could  have  no  Counsel — Lord  Eldon  and  the 
Court  of  Chancery  pressed  heavily  upon  mankind — Libel  was 
punished  by  the  most  cruel  and  vindictive  imprisonments — 
the  principles  of  Political  Economy  were  little  understood — 
the  Law  of  Debt  and  of  Conspiracy  were  upon  the  worst  pos- 
sible footing — the  enormous  wickedness  of  the  Slave  Trade 
was  tolerated — a  thousand  evils  were  in  existence,  which  the 
talents  df  good  and  able  men  have  since  lessened  or  removed ; 


300  UTERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

and  these  effects  have  been  not  a  little  assisted  by  the  honest 
boldness  of  the  Edinburgh  Review. 

I  see  very  little  in  my  views  to  alter  or  repent  of:  I  always 
endeavored  to  fight  against  evil ;  and  what  I  thought  evil 
then,  I  think  evil  now.  •  I  am  heartily  glad  that  all  our  dis- 
qualifying laws  for  religious  opinions  are  abolished,  and  I  see 
nothing  in  such  measures  but  unmixed  good  and  real  increase 
of  strength  to  our  Establishment. 

MRS.  PARTINGTON. 

I  DO  not  mean  to  be  disrespectful,  but  the  attempt  of  the 
lords  to  stop  the  progress  of  reform  reminds  me  very  forcibly 
of  the  great  storm  of  Sidmouth,  and  of  the  conduct  of  the 
excellent  Mrs.  Partington  on  that  occasion.  In  the  winter  of 
1824  there  set  in  a  great  flood  upon  that  town — the  tide  rose 
to  an  incredible  height — the  waves  rushed  in  upon  the  houses 
— and  every  thing  was  threatened  with  destruction.  In  the 
midst  of  this  sublime  storm,  Dame  Partington,  who  lived 
upon  the  beach,  was  seen  at  the  door  of  her  house  with  mop 
and  pattens,  trundling  her  mop,  and  squeezing  out  the  sea 
water,  and  vigorously  pushing  away  the  Atlantic  Ocean. 
The  Atlantic  was  roused ;  Mrs.  Partington's  spirit  was  up; 
but  I  need  not  tell  you  that  the  contest  was  unequal.  The 
Atlantic  Ocean  beat  Mrs.  Partington.  She  was  excellent  at  a 
slop  or  a  puddle ;  but  she  should  not  have  meddled  with  a 
tempest. 

DR.  PARR'S  SERMON. 

WHOEVER  has  had  the  good  fortune  to  see  Dr.  Parr's  wig, 
must  have  observed,  that  while  it  trespasses  a  little  on  the 
orthodox  magnitude  of  perukes  in  the  anterior  parts,  it  scorns 
even  episcopal  limits  behind,  and  swells  out  into  boundless 
convexity  of  frizz,  the  mega  thauma  [the  "great  wonder"]  of 
barbers,  and  the  terror  of  the  literary  world.  After  the 
manner  of  his  wig,  the  Doctor  has  constructed  his  sermon, 
giving  us  a  discourse  of  no  common  length,  and  subjoining 
an  immeasurable  mass  of  notes,  which  appear  to  concern  every 
learned  thing,  every  learned  man,  and  almost  every  unlearned 
man  since  the  beginning  of  the  world. 


CHARLES  DICKENS. 

BY  far  the  most  surprising  and 
dazzling  literary  phenomenon  of 
the  century  was  Charles  Dickens. 
There  were  many  greater  men 
than  he,  many  stronger  and  loftier 
characters  ;  but  when  we  remember  all  that  he  lacked  in  the 
way  of  equipment  and  backing  at  the  outset,  and  then  note 
the  overwhelming  conquest  of  fame  and  fortune  that  he,  by 
his  unaided  force  and  genius,  made,  we  must  acknowledge 
that  no  other  man  so  gifted,  who  used  his  gifts  with  such 
energy  and  faithfulness,  has  been  seen  in  this  age.  No  other 
author  in  his  own  lifetime,  and  except  Shakespeare  no  other 
author  at  any  time,  has  been  so  familiar  a  word  in  all  men's 
mouths,  or  has  received  the  tribute  of  such  widespread  per- 
sonal affection,  as  did  this  low-born  son  of  a  Cockney  clerk. 
Among  his  personal  friends  were  many  of  the  foremost  men 
of  Europe  and  America ;  and  such  was  the  contagion  of  his 
companionship,  that  for  the  moment  his  associates  seemed  to 
become,  in  their  measure,  like  himself:  to  emulate  his  activ- 
ity and  to  share  his  point  of  view.  It  would  be  difficult  to 
exaggerate  his  influence  upon  his  time ;  and  though  he  has 
been  vulgarized  by  innumerable  would-be  imitators  and  bur- 
lesquers,  his  books  still  amuse  thousands  of  readers,  and 
some  of  their  qualities  command  the  admiration  of  the  sever- 
est critics.  His  sudden  death  could  hardly  be  realized :  it 
could  scarcely  be  believed  that  so  intense  a  life,  so  abounding 
a  vitality,  had  been  extinguished ;  and  there  have  been  few 
men  whose  loss  was  so  unaffectedly  regretted.  We  see  his 
foibles  and  limitations  now;  but  our  only  wonder  should  be 
that  they  are  so  few  and  so  amiable. 

301 


302  WTERATURE  OP  AW,  NATIONS. 

Charles  Dickens  was  the  son  of  John  Dickens,  a  poor  Eng- 
lish clerk  in  the  navy  pay-office,  and  was  born  about  eight 
months  later  than  his  great  contemporary,  Thackeray,  on 
February  7,  1812.  But  he  outlived  the  author  of  "  Vanity 
Fair"  some  seven  years,  dying  on  the  Qth  of  June,  1870.  He 
began  his  u  Sketches  by  Boz  "  in  1833,  when  he  was  twenty- 
one  years  old,  and  was  continually  productive  during  thirty- 
seven  years,  dying,  like  Thackeray,  in  the  act  of  working  on 
an  unfinished  story,  "  Edwin  Drood."  From  an  obscure  and 
penniless  hack-writer,  he  had  made  himself  the  most  popular 
author  in  the  world,  and  had  amassed  a  handsome  fortune  by 
his  pen,  and  by  public  readings  from  his  own  works  in  Eng- 
land, Ireland  and  America.  His  literary  reputation  does  not 
stand  so  high  now  as  it  did  thirty  years  since ;  but  his  extra- 
ordinary and  dazzling  genius  is  incontestable.  His  contem- 
porary success  was  due  to  his  enormous  humor,  to  his  exag- 
gerated but  effective  sentiment,  to  his  vivid  and  dramatic 
scenic  accessories  to  the  intense  light  which  he  cast  upon 
phases  of  life  in  the  lower  and  middle  classes  which  had 
hitherto  been  unportrayed,  to  the  unfailing  and  often  exces- 
sive animation  of  his  narrative,  and  to  the  fascination  of  his 
personality,  which  was  brought  into  prominence  by  his  read- 
ings. His  career,  aside  from  his  books,  was  uneventful :  he 
married,  he  disagreed  with  his  wife,  he  twice  visited  America, 
he  edited  a  magazine  which  commanded  the  largest  circula- 
tion, at  that  time,  in  the  world.  But  his  life  was  full  of 
movement ;  the  story  of  it  affects  the  reader  like  a  breathless 
ride  in  an  express  train.  It  was  a  relentless  straining  of  the 
nerves,  a  whirl  of  excitement,  to  the  last  pitch  and  beyond. 
Dickens  never  rested  until  he  died  ;  in  his  ears  was  ever  the 
roar  of  public  commendation  ;  ever  driving  him  onward  was 
the  necessity  to  make  his  triumphs  continuous  ;  his  thirst  for 
approbation  became  a  mania ;  his  abnormally  stimulated 
emotional  nature  distorted  his  sense  of  proportion  and  his 
intellectual  judgment ;  the  public  which  he  addressed  never 
knew  and  never  saw  Charles  Dickens  the  man,  but  only  the 
part  which  he  all  his  life  enacted — the  part  of  Charles  Dickens 
the  novelist.  For  Dickens  was  in  truth  a  great  actor  with  a 
marvelous  gift  of  literary  expression  superadded.  All  that  he 


ENGUSH   UTBRATURB.  303 

wrote  and  did  was  tinged  with  the  exaggeration,  the  lime- 
light extravagance,  the  caricature  of  the  stage.  Very  seldom 
was  the  simple  modesty  of  nature  reproduced  in  his  works. 
His  powers  of  observation  were  unequalled,  and  what  he  ob- 
served he  described  ;  but  he  observed  something  different 
from  actual  existence.  He  was  the  subject  of  a  perennial, 
overwrought  hallucination.  But  the  glamour  of  genius 
which  irradiated  his  work,  his  fun,  his  color,  his  eye  for 
characteristic  features,  his  intolerance  of  wrong  and  his 
enthusiasm  for  humanity,  overwhelmed  criticism,  and  de- 
ceived a  generation  into  sharing  his  own  belief  that  his 
delineations  were  true.  And  it  is  only  now,  after  nearly 
thirty  years,  that  we  are  able  to  see  him  as  he  really  was, 
and  to  estimate  his  work  dispassionately  by  the  unchangeable 
standards  of  literary  art. 

The  quality  of  his  production  does  not  vary  greatly  from 
the  beginning  to  the  end  of  his  career ;  but  upon  the  whole 
his  earlier  books  are  the  best.  "Pick wick, "  his  first  great 
success,  was  pure  comedy,  and  as  comedy  he  never  surpassed 
it.  "Oliver  Twist, "  with  its  humor,  its  strong  characteriza- 
tions, its  strange  episodes,  its  tragic  passages  and  its  scathing 
exposure  of  abuses,  was  the  type  and  in  some  respects  the 
model  of  all  his  subsequent  work  in  that  line.  He  had  just 
awakened  to  a  realization  of  his  power,  and  was  exercising  it 
with  full  enjoyment.  Thenceforward  there  was  never  an 
intermission  and  scarcely  a  diminution  in  the  tide  of  his  suc- 
cess. In  1836  he  married  Catherine  Hogarth,  who  survived 
him;  in  1849  he  established  Household  Words,  the  sales  of 
which  were  immediately  enormous.  By  this  time  his  repu- 
tation was  fully  confirmed.  His  first  visit  to  America  was  in 
1842,  and  the  fruits  of  that  journey,  " American  Notes"  and 
u  Martin  Chuzzlewit,"  aroused  much  personal  feeling  against 
him  in  this  country,  though  they  did  not  diminish  the  num- 
ber of  his  readers  here.  In  1859,  owing  to  domestic  troubles 
complicated  with  a  quarrel  with  his  publishers,  Household 
Words  became  All  the  Year  Round,  but  underwent  no  other 
alteration,  either  in  its  form  or  popularity.  "  David  Cop- 
perfield,"  a  novel  partly  autobiographical,  and  by  some  pre- 
ferred to  his  other  works,  appeared  in  1850.  "A  Tale  of  Two 


3°4  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

Cities, "  written  under  the  influence  of  Carlyle's  "French 
Revolution,"  and  admired  at  the  time,  though  now  consid- 
ered melodramatic,  was  published  in  1859.  During  the  lattei 
years  of  his  life  he  began  the  famous  series  of  ; '  Readings ' ' 
from  his  books  which  so  greatly  increased  his  personal  fame  and 
fortune,  but  the  nervous  strain  brought  him  also  death  before 
he  was  sixty.  His  friends,  his  physicians,  and  nature  herself 
warned  him,  but  he  kept  on,  and  paid  the  penalty.  He  per- 
suaded himself  that  his  only  object  was  to  leave  a  large  estate 
to  his  family,  and  protested  that  the  work  itself  was  distaste, 
ful  to  him ;  yet  at  the  same  time  he  was  involuntarily  con- 
fessing the  delight  it  afforded  him  to  exhibit  himself  on  the 
platform,  to  witness  his  personal  success,  and  to  count  up  his 
unprecedented  gains.  His  American  Readings  were  fully  as 
successful  as  those  in  England,  and  they  also  availed  to 
remove  the  hostility  which  his  ''American  Notes"  twenty- 
five  years  before  had  created.  The  actor-instinct  in  the  man, 
not  satisfied  with  the  spectacular  features  which  marked  his 
whole  career,  and  with  the  frequent  amateur  performances  in 
aid  of  charities  and  on  other  special  pretexts  which  interlarded 
his  other  activities,  demanded  this  final  gratification ;  and 
this,  like  all  else  that  he  craved,  was  granted  him.  Dickens 
was  the  spoiled  darling  of  fortune  and  of  his  public,  which 
included  all  English-speaking  persons,  and  many  others  whom 
he  reached  through  translations.  It  is  greatly  to  his  credit 
that  he  always  tried  to  do  his  very  best,  never  sparing  him- 
self in  the  effort ;  nor,  if  we  except  certain  passages  in  his 
private  life,  did  he  ever  commit  a  dishonorable  or  unwarrant- 
able act. 

Dickens  was  a  man  of  fine  appearance,  a  trifle  above  the 
middle  height,  with  dark  curling  hair  and  large,  brilliant,  ex- 
pressive eyes.  He  was  of  athletic  habit,  given  to  long  and 
frequent  walks,  often  at  night ;  for  he  slept  ill,  and  had  a 
theory  that  mental  labor  could  be  counteracted  in  its  effects 
by  physical  exertion — a  theory  which  no  doubt  hastened  his 
end.  His  voice  on  the  platform  was  flexible,  eloquent,  and 
finely  modulated  ;  his  dramatic  power  remarkable.  He  rests 
in  Westminster  Abbey;  and  not  many  of  his  fellows  there 
have  better  deserved  the  honor. 


KNGUSH   LITERATURE. 


305 


PICKWICK  RETURNS  THANKS. 

(From  "The  Posthumous  Papers  of  the  Pickwick  Club.") 

A  CASUAL  observer  might 
possibly  have  remarked  no- 
thing extraordinary  in  the 
bald  head,  and  circular  spec- 
tacles, which  were  intently 
turned  towards  his  (the  sec- 
retary's) face  during  the 
reading  of  the  above  reso- 
lutions. To  those  who  knew 
that  the  gigantic  brain  oi 
Pickwick  was  working  be- 
neath that  forehead,  and  that 
the  beaming  eyes  of  Pick- 
wick were  twinkling  behind 
those  glasses,  the  sight  was 
indeed  an  interesting  one. 
There  sat  the  man  who  had 
traced  to  theii  source  the 
mighty  ponds  of  Hamp- 
stead,  and  agitated  the  scien- 
tific world  with  his  Theory 
of  Tittlebats,  as  calm  and 
unmoved  as  the  deep  waters 
of  the  one  on  a  frosty  day, 
or  as  a  solitary  specimen  of 
the  other,  in  the  inmost  recesses  of  an  earthern  jar.  And 
how  much  more  interesting  did  the  spectacle  become,  when, 
starting  into  full  life  and  animation,  as*  a  simultaneous  call 
for  "  Pick  wick n  burst  from  his  enthusiastic  followers, 
that  illustrious  man  slowly  mounted  into  the  Windsor 
chair,  on  which  he  had  been  previously  seated,  and  addressed 
the  club  himself  had  founded !  What  a  study  for  an  artist 
did  that  exciting  scene  present!  The  eloquent  Pickwick, 
with  one  hand  gracefully  concealed  behind  his  coat-tails,  and 
the  other  waving  in  air  to  assist  his  glowing  declamation : 

TX— 20 


306  LITERATURE  OF  AI,!,  NATIONS. 

his  elevated  position  revealing  those  tights  and  gaiters,  which, 
had  they  clothed  an  ordinary  man,  might  have  passed  with- 
out observation,  but  which,  when  Pickwick  clothed  them — 
if  we  may  use  the  expression — inspired  involuntary  awe  and 
respect;  surrounded  by  the  men  who  had  volunteered  to  share 
the  peril  of  his  travels,  and  who  were  destined  to  participate 
in  the  glories  of  his  discoveries.  On  his  right  hand  sat  Mr. 
Tracy  Tupman ;  the  too  susceptible  Tupman,  who  to  the 
wisdom  and  experience  of  maturer  years  superadded  the  en- 
thusiasm and  ardor  of  a  boy,  in  the  most  interesting  and  par- 
donable of  human  weaknesses — love.  Time  and  feeding  had 
expanded  that  once  romantic  form  ;  the  black  silk  waistcoat 
had  become  more  and  more  developed  ;  inch  by  inch  had  the 
gold  watch-chain  beneath  it  disappeared  from  within  the 
range  of  Tupman 's  vision  ;  and  gradually  had  the  capacious 
chin  encroached  upon  the  borders  of  the  white  cravat,  but  the 
soul  of  Tupman  had  known  no  change — admiration  of  the 
fair  sex  was  still  its  ruling  passion.  On  the  left  of  his  great 
leader  sat  the  poetic  Snodgrass,  and  near  him  again  the  sport- 
ing Winkle,  the  former  poetically  enveloped  in  a  mysterious 
blue  cloak  with  a  canine-skin  collar,  and  the  latter  commu- 
nicating additional  lustre  to  a  new  green  shooting  coat,  plaid 
neckerchief,  and  closely-fitted  drabs. 

Mr.  Pickwick's  oration  upon  this  occasion,  together  with 
the  debate  thereon,  is  entered  on  the  Transactions  of  the  Club. 
Both  bear  a  strong  affinity  to  the  discussions  of  other  cele- 
brated bodies ;  and,  as  it  is  always  interesting  to  trace  a  resem- 
blance between  the  proceedings  of  great  men,  we  transfer  the 
entry  to  these  pages. 

"Mr.  Pickwick  observed  (says  the  Secretary)  that  fame 
was  dear  to  the  heart  of  every  man.  Poetic  fame  was  dear  to 
the  heart  of  his  friend  Snodgrass,  the  fame  of  conquest  was 
equally  dear  to  his  friend  Tupman ;  and  the  desire  of  earning 
fame,  in  the  sports  of  the  field,  the  air,  and  the  water,  was 
uppermost  in  the  breast  of  his  friend  Winkle.  He  (Mr.  Pick- 
wick) would  not  deny  that  he  was  influenced  by  human  pas- 
sions, and  human  feelings  (cheers,)— possibly  by  human 
weaknesses — (loud  cries  of  "No");  but  this  he  would  say, 
that  if  ever  the  fire  of  self-importance  broke  out  in  his  bosom, 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  3<>7 

the  desire  to  benefit  the  human  race  in  preference  effectually 
quenched  it.  The  praise  of  mankind  was  his  swing ;  philan- 
thropy was  his  insurance  office.  (Vehement  cheering.)  He 
had  felt  some  pride — he  acknowledged  it  freely ;  and  let  his 
enemies  make  the  most  of  it — he  had  felt  some  pride  when 
he  presented  his  Tittlebatian  Theory  to  the  world ;  it  might 
be  celebrated,  or  it  might  not.  (A  cry  of  'It  is,' and  great 
cheering.)  He  would  take  the  assertion  of  that  honorable 
Pickwickian  whose  voice  he  had  just  heard — it  was  celebrated ; 
but  if  the  fame  of  that  treatise  were  to  extend  to  the  farthest 
confines  of  the  known  world,  the  pride  with  which  he  should 
reflect  on  the  authorship  of  that  production,  would  be  as  no- 
thing compared  with  the  pride  with  which  he  looked  around 
him,  on  this,  the  proudest  moment  of  his  existence.  (Cheers.) 
He  was  an  humble  individual.  (No,  no.)  Still  he  could  not 
but  feel  that  they  had  selected  him  for  a  service  of  great 
honor  and  of  some  danger.  Traveling  was  in  a  troubled  state, 
and  the  minds  of  coachmen  were  unsettled.  Let  them  look 
abroad,  and  contemplate  the  scenes  which  were  enacting 
around  them.  Stage-coaches  were  upsetting  in  all  directions, 
horses  were  bolting,  boats  were  overturning,  and  boilers  were 
bursting.  (Cheers — a  voice*  No.')  No!  (Cheers.)  Let  that 
honorable  Pickwickian  who  cried  *  No '  so  loudly,  come  for- 
ward and  deny  it,  if  he  could.  (Cheers.)  Who  was  it  that 
cried  '  No?  '  (Enthusiastic  cheering.)  Was  it  some  vain  and 
disappointed  man — he  would  not  say  haberdasher — (loud 
cheers) — who,  jealous  of  the  praise  which  had  been — perhaps 
undeservedly — bestowed  on  his  (Mr.  Pickwick's)  researches, 
and  smarting  under  the  censure  which  had  been  heaped  upon 
his  own  feeble  attempts  at  rivalry,  now  took  this  vile  and 
calumnious  mode  of—  " 

"  Mr.  BLOTTON  (of  Aldgate),  rose  to  order.  Did  the  hon- 
orable Pickwickian  allude  to  him?  (Cries  of  *  Order/  'Chair/ 
*  Yes,'  '  No/  *  Go  on,'  '  Leave  off,'  &c.) 

"Mr.  PICKWICK  would  not  put  up  to  be  put  down  by 
clamor.  He  had  alluded  to  the  honorable  gentleman.  (Great 
excitement.) 

u  Mr.  BLOTTON  would  only  say  then,  that  he  repelled  the 
hon.  gent's  false  and  scurrilous  accusation  with  profound 


308  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

contempt.     (Great  cheering.)     The  hon.  gent,  was  a  humbug. 
(Immense  confusion,  and  loud  cries  of  *  chair, '  and  '  order.') 

"Mr.  A.  SNODGRASS  rose  to  order.  He  threw  himself 
upon  the  chair.  (Hear.)  He  wished  to  know,  whether  this 
disgraceful  contest  between  two  members  of  the  club,  should 
be  allowed  to  continue.  (Hear,  hear.) 

"  The  CHAIRMAN  was  quite  sure  the  hon.  Pickwickian 
would  withdraw  the  expression  he  had  just  made  use  of. 

"Mr.  BLOTTON,  with  all  possible  respect  for  the  chair, 
was  quite  sure  he  would  not. 

"  The  CHAIRMAN  felt  it  his  imperative  duty  to  demand  of 
the  honorable  gentleman,  whether  he  had  used  the  expres- 
sion which  had  just  escaped  him,  in  a  common  sense. 

"Mr.  BLOTTON  had  no  hesitation  in  saying  that  he  had 
not — he  had  used  the  word  in  its  Pickwickian  sense.  (Hear, 
hear.)  He  was  bound  to  acknowledge,  that,  personally,  he 
entertained  the  highest  regard  and  esteem  for  the  honorable 
gentleman ;  he  had  merely  considered  him  a  humbug  in  a 
Pickwickian  point  of  view.  (Hear,  hear.) 

"Mr.  PICKWICK  felt  much  gratified  by  the  fair,  candid, 
and  full  explanation  of  his  honorable  friend.  He  begged  it 
to  be  at  once  understood,  that  his  own  observations  had  been 
merely  intended  to  bear  a  Pickwickian  construction.  (Cheers.)" 

SAM  WELLER'S  VALENTINE. 

(From  "  The  Posthumous  Papers  of  the  Pickwick  Club.") 
SAM  WELLER  sat  himself  down  and  pulled  out  the  sheet 
of  gilt-edged  letter-paper,  and  the  hard-nibbed  pen.  Then, 
looking  carefully  at  the  pen  to  see  that  there  were  no  hairs  in 
it,  and  dusting  down  the  table,  so  that  there  might  be  no 
crumbs  of  bread  under  the  paper,  Sam  tucked  up  the  cuffs  of 
his  coat,  squared  his  elbows,  and  composed  himself  to  write. 

To  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  are  not  in  the  habit  of  de- 
voting themselves  practically  to  the  science  of  penmanship, 
writing  a  letter  is  no  very  easy  task,  it  being  always  consid- 
ered necessary  in  such  cases  for  the  writer  to  recline  his 
head  on  his  left  arm,  so  as  to  place  his  eyes  as  nearly  as 
possible  on  a  level  with  the  paper,  and  while  glancing 
sideways  at  the  letters  he  is  constructing,  to  form  with  his 


ENGUSH  UTERATURB.  309 

tongue  imaginary  characters  to  correspond.  These  motions, 
although  unquestionably  of  the  greatest  assistance  to  original 
composition,  retard  in  some  degree  the  progress  of  the  writer, 
and  Sam  had  unconsciously  been  a  full  hour  and  a  half  writ- 
ing words  in  small  text,  smearing  out  wrong  letters  with  his 
little  finger,  and  putting  in  new  ones  which  required  going 
over  very  often  to  render  them  visible  through  the  old  blots, 
when  he  was  roused  by  the  opening  of  the  door  and  the  en- 
trance of  his  parent. 

"  Veil,  Sammy,"  said  the  father. 

"Veil,  my  Prooshan  Blue,"  responded  the  son,  laying  down 
his  pen.  "What's  the  last  bulletin  about  mother-in-law?" 

"  Mrs.  Veller  passed  a  wery  good  night,  but  is  uncommon 
perwerse,  and  unpleasant  this  mornin' — signed  upon  oath — 
Tony  Veller,  Esq.  That's  the  last  vun  as  was  issued,  Sammy," 
replied  Mr.  Weller,  untying  his  shawl. 

"  No  better  yet?"  inquired  Sam. 

"All  the  symptoms  aggerawated, "  replied  Mr.  Weller, 
shaking  his  head.  "  But  wot's  that,  you're  a  doin'  of— pur- 
suit of  knowledge  under  difficulties — eh,  Sammy  ?  " 

"I've  done  now,"  said  Sam,  with  slight  embarrassment; 
"  I've  been  a  writin'." 

"So  I  see,"  replied  Mr.  Weller.  "Not  to  any  young 
'ooman,  I  hope,  Sammy." 

"Why  it's  no  use  a  sayin'  it  ain't,"  replied  Sam.  "  It's  a 
walentine." 

"A  what!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Weller,  apparently  horror- 
stricken  by  the  word. 

"A  walentine,"  replied  Sam. 

"Samivel,  Samivel,"  said  Mr.  Weller,  in  reproachful  ac- 
cents, "I  didn't  think  you'd  ha'  done  it.  Arter  the  warnin' 
you've  had  o'  your  father's  wicious  propensities,  arter  all  I've 
said  to  you  upon  this  here  wery  subject ;  arter  actiwally  seem' 
and  bein'  in  the  company  o'  your  own  mother-in-law,  vich  I 
should  ha'  thought  wos  a  moral  lesson  as  no  man  could  ever 
ha'  forgotten  to  his  dyin'  day!  I  didn't  think  you'd  ha'  done 
it,  Sammy,  I  didn't  think  you'd  ha'  done  it."  These  reflec- 
tions were  too  much  for  the  good  old  man.  He  raised  Sam's 
tumbler  to  his  lips  and  drank  off  the  contents. 


310  MTERATURE  OF  AM,  NATIONS. 

"  Wot's  the  matter  now?"  said  Sam. 

"Nev'r  mind,  Sammy,"  replied  Mr.  Weller,  "it'll  be  a 
wery  agonizin'  trial  to  me  at  my  time  of  life,  but  I'm  pretty 
tough,  that's  vun  consolation,  as  the  wery  old  turkey  remarked 
ven  the  farmer  said  he  wos  afeerd  he  should  be  obliged  to  kill 
him  for  the  London  market." 

"  Wot'll  be  a  trial?"  inquired  Sam. 

"To  see  you  married,  Sammy — to  see  you  a  deluded 
wictim,  and  thinkin*  in  your  innocence  that  it's  all  wery 
capital,"  replied  Mr.  Weller.  "It's  a  dreadful  trial  to  a 
father's  feelin's,  that  'ere,  Sammy." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Sam.  "  I  ain't  a  goin'  to  get  married, 
don't  you  fret  yourself  about  that ;  I  know  you're  a  judge  o' 
these  things.  Order  in  your  pipe,  and  I'll  read  you  the  letter 
—there." 

We  cannot  distinctly  say  whether  it  was  the  prospect  of 
the  pipe,  or  the  consolatory  reflection  that  a  fatal  disposition 
to  get  married  ran  in  the  family,  and  couldn't  be  helped,  which 
calmed  Mr.  Weller' s  feelings,  and  caused  his  grief  to  subside. 
We  should  be  rather  disposed  to  say  that  the  result  was  at- 
tained by  combining  the  two  sources  of  consolation,  for  he 
repeated  the  second  in  a  low  tone,  very  frequently;  ringing 
the  bell  meanwhile,  to  order  in  the  first.  He  then  divested 
himself  of  his  upper  coat ;  and  lighting  the  pipe  and  placing 
himself  in  front  of  the  fire  with  his  back  towards  it,  so  that 
he  could  feel  its  full  heat,  and  recline  against  the  mantel- 
piece at  the  same  time,  turned  towards  Sam,  and,  with  a 
countenance  greatly  modified  by  the  softening  influence  of 
tobacco,  requested  him  to  "fire  away." 

Sam  dipped  his  pen  into  the  ink  to  be  ready  for  any  cor- 
rections, and  began  with  a  very  theatrical  air — 

"'lively—      -'" 

"Stop,"  said  Mr.  Weller,  ringing  the  bell.  UA  double 
glass  o'  the  inwariable,  my  dear." 

"Very  well,  Sir,"  replied  the  girl;  who  with  quickness 
appeared,  vanished,  returned,  and  disappeared. 

"  They  seem  to  know  your  ways  here,"  observed  Sam. 

"Yes,"  replied  his  father,  "I've  been  here  before,  in  my 
time.  Go  on,  Sammy." 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  311 

"  *  Lovely  creetur',"  repeated  Sam. 

"'Taint  in  poetry,  is  it?"  interposed  the  father. 

"No,  no,"  replied  Sam. 

"  Wery  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Mr.  Weller.  "  Poetry's  tm- 
nat'ral ;  no  man  ever  talked  in  poetry  'cept  a  beadle  on  boxin* 
day,  or  Warren's  blackin'  or  Rowland's  oil,  or  some  of  them 
low  fellows  ;  never  you  let  yourself  down  to  talk  poetry,  my 
boy.  Begin  again,  Sammy. " 

Mr.  Weller  resumed  his  pipe  with  critical  solemnity,  and 
Sain  once  more  commenced,  and  read  as  follows. 

"  *  Lovely  creetur  i  feel  myself  a  dammed '  " — 

"That  ain't  proper,"  said  Mr.  Weller,  taking  his  pipe 
from  his  mouth. 

"  No ;  it  ain't  dammed,"  observed  Sam,  holding  the  letter 
up  to  the  light,  "it's  l shamed,'  there's  a  blot  there—*!  feel 
myself  ashamed.' " 

"Wery  good,"  said  Mr.  Weller.     " Go  on." 

"'Feel  myself  ashamed,  and  completely  cir — .'  I  forget 
wot  this  here  word  is,"  said  Sam,  scratching  his  head  with 
the  pen,  in  vain  attempts  to  remember. 

"Why  don't  you  look  at  it,  then?"  inquired  Mr.  Weller. 

"So  I  am  SL  lookin'  at  it,"  replied  Sam,  "but  there's 
another  blot ;  here's  a  * c,'  and  a  ( i,'  and  a  * d.'" 

"  Circumwented,  p'rhaps,"  suggested  Mr.  Weller. 

"No,  it  ain't  that,"  said  Sam,  "circumscribed,  that's  it" 

"That  ain't  as  good  a  word  as  circumwented,  Sammy," 
said  Mr.  Weller,  gravely. 

'  *  Think  not  ?  "  said  Sam. 

"Nothin'  like  it,"  replied  his  father. 

"But  don't  you  think  it  means  more?"  inquired  Sam. 

"Veil,  p'rhaps  it  is  a  more  tenderer  word,"  said  Mr.  Wel- 
ler, after  a  few  moments'  reflection.  "Go  on,  Sammy." 

a<Feel  myself  ashamed  and  completely  circumscribed  in 
a  dressin'  of  you,  for  you  are  a  nice  gal  and  nothin'  but  it.'" 

u  That's  a  wery  pretty  sentiment,"  said  the  elder  Mr.  Wel- 
ler, removing  his  pipe  to  make  way  for  the  remark. 

"Yes,  I  think  it  is  rayther  good,"  observed  Sam,  highly 
flattered. 

"Wot  I  like  in  that  'ere  style  of  writin',"  said  the  elder 


UTERATURE  OF  AIJ,  NATIONS. 

Mr.  Weller,  "is,  that  there  ain't  no  callin'  names  in  it, — no 
Wenuses,  nor  nothin'  o'  that  kind;  wot's  the  good  o'  callin' 
a  young  'ooman  a  Wenus  or  a  angel,  Sammy?" 

"Ah!  what,  indeed?"  replied  Sam. 

"  You  ought  jist  as  veil  call  her  a  griffin,  or  a  unicorn,  or 
a  king's  arms  at  once,  which  is  wery  well  known  to  be  a  col- 
lection o'  fabulous  animals,"  added  Mr.  Weller. 

"Just  as  well,"  replied  Sam. 

' '  Drive  on,  Sammy, ' '  said  Mr.  Weller. 

Sam  complied  with  the  request,  and  proceeded  as  follows ; 
his  father  continuing  to  smoke  with  a  mixed  expression  of 
wisdom  and  complacency,  which  was  particularly  edifying. 

"  *  Afore  I  see  you  I  thought  all  women  was  alike.* " 

"So  they  are,"  observed  the  elder  Mr.  Weller,  paren- 
thetically. 

"'But  now,'  continued  Sam,  'now  I  find  what  a  regular 
soft-hearted,  ink-red'lous  turnip  I  must  ha*  been,  for  there 
ain't  nobody  like  you  though  /  like  you  better  than  nothin' 
at  all.'  I  thought  it  best  to  make  that  rayther  strong,"  said 
Sam,  looking  up. 

Mr.  Weller  nodded  approvingly,  and  Sam  resumed. 

"  c  So  I  take  the  privilidge  of  the  day,  Mary,  my  dear — as 
the  gen'lem'n  in  difficulties  did,  ven.he  valked  out  of  a  Sun- 
day— to  tell  you  that  the  first  and  only  time  I  see  you  your 
likeness  was  took  on  my  hart  in  much  quicker  time  and 
brighter  colors  than  ever  a  likeness  was  taken  by  the  profeel 
macheen  (wich  pYhaps  you  may  have  heerd  on,  Mary  my 
dear)  altho  it  does  finish  a  portrait  and  put  the  frame  and 
glass  on  complete  with  a  hook  at  the  end  to  hang  it  up  by, 
and  all  in  two  minutes  and  a  quarter/  " 

"  I  am  afeered  that  werges  on  the  poetical,  Sammy,"  said 
Mr.  Weller,  dubiously. 

"No  it  don't,"  replied  Sam,  reading  on  very  quickly,  to 
avoid  contesting  the  point. 

" '  Except  of  me  Mary  my  dear  as  your  walentine  and 
think  over  what  I've  said. — My  dear  Mary  I  will  now  con- 
clude.' That's  all,"  said  Sam. 

"That's  rayther  a  sudden  pull  up,  ain't  it,  Sammy?"  in- 
quired Mr.  Weller, 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  3*3 

"  Not  a  bit  on  it,"  said  Sam  ;  "  she'll  vish  there  wos  more, 
and  that's  the  great  art  o'  letter  writinV 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Weller,  "  there's  somethin'  in  that ;  and 
I  wish  your  mother-in-law  'ud  only  conduct  her  conwersa- 
tion  on  the  same  genteel  principle.  Ain't  you  a  goin'  to 
sign  it?" 

" That's  the  difficulty,"  said  Sam;  "I  don't  know  what 
/osign  it" 

"Sign  it — Veller,"  said  the  oldest  surviving  proprietor  of 
that  name. 

"Won't  do,"  said  Sam.  "  Never  sign  a  walentine  with 
your  own  name." 

"Sign  it  'Pickvick,'  then,"  said  Mr.  Weller;  "it's  a 
ivery  good  name,  and  a  easy  one  to  spell." 

"The  wery  thing,"  said  Sam.  "I  could  end  with  a  werse ; 
what  do  you  think?" 

"I  don't  like  it,  Sam,"  rejoined  Mr.  Weller.  "I  never 
know'd  a  respectable  coachman  as  wrote  poetry,  'cept  one,  as 
made  an  affectin'  copy  o'  werses  the  night  afore  he  wos  hung 
for  a  highway  robbery ;  and  he  wos  only  a  Cambervell  man, 
so  even  that's  no  rule." 

But  Sam  was  not  to  be  dissuaded  from  the  poetical  idea 
that  had  occurred  to  him,  so  he  signed  the  letter — 

"Your  love-sick 
Pickwick." 

And  having  folded  it  in  a  very  intricate  manner,  squeezed  a 
down-hill  direction  in  one  corner :  "  To  Mary,  House-maid, 
at  Mr.  Nupkin's  Mayors,  Ipswich,  Suffolk  ; "  and  put  it  into 
his  pocket,  wafered,  and  ready  for  the  General  Post. 

MARK  TAPLEY'S  VENTURE. 

(From  "The  Life  and  Adventures  of  Martin  Chuzzlewit.") 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  being  about  to  leave  tendon  to  go  to  America, 
unexpectedly  receives  a  note  for  ^20. 

THE  final  upshot  of  the  business  at  that  time  was,  that  he 
resolved  to  treat  himself  to  a  comfortable  but  frugal  meal  in 
his  own  chamber ;  and  having  ordered  a  fire  to  be  kindled, 
went  out  to  purchase  it  forthwith. 


314  WTERATURB  OF  AU<  NATIONS. 

He  bought  some  cold  beef,  and  ham,  and  French  bread, 
and  butter,  and  came  back  with  his  pockets  pretty  heavily 
laden.  It  was  somewhat  of  a  damping  circumstance  to  find 
the  room  full  of  smoke,  which  was  attributable  to  two  causes: 
firstly,  to  the  flue  being  naturally  vicious  and  a  smoker ;  and 
secondly,  to  their  having  forgotten  in  lighting  the  fire,  an 
odd  sack  or  two  and  some  other  trifles,  which  had  been  put 
up  the  chimney  to  keep  the  rain  out.  They  had  already  rem- 
edied this  oversight,  however,;  and  propped  up  the  window- 
sash  with  a  bundle  of  firewood  to  keep  it  open ;  so  that,  ex- 
cept in  being  rather  inflammatory  to  the  eyes  and  choking  to 
the  lungs,  the  apartment  was  quite  comfortable. 

Martin  was  in  no  vein  to  quarrel  with  it,  if  it  had  been 
in  less  tolerable  order,  especially  when  a  gleaming  pint  of 
porter  was  set  upon  the  table,  and  the  servant-girl  withdrew, 
bearing  with  her  particular  instructions  relative  to  the  pro- 
duction of  something  hot,  when  he  should  ring  the  bell.  The 
cold  meat  being  wrapped  in  a  play-bill,  Martin  laid  the  cloth 
by  spreading  that  document  on  the  little  round  table  with  the 
print  downwards  ;  and  arranging  the  collation  upon  it.  The 
foot  of  the  bed,  which  was  very  close  to  the  fire,  answered 
for  a  sideboard  ;  and  when  he  had  completed  these  prepara- 
tions, he  squeezed  an  old  arm-chair  into  the  warmest  corner, 
and  sat  down  to  enjoy  himself. 

He  had  begun  to  eat  with  a  great  appetite,  glancing  round 
the  room  meanwhile  with  a  triumphant  anticipation  of  quit- 
ting it  forever  on  the  morrow,  when  his  attention  was  ar- 
rested by  a  stealthy  footstep  on  the  stairs,  and  presently  by 
a  knock  at  his  chamber  door,  which  although  it  was  a  gentle 
enough  knock,  communicated  such  a  start  to  the  bundle  of 
firewood  that  it  instantly  leaped  out  of  the  window,  and 
plunged  into  the  street. 

"  More  coals,  I  suppose,"  said  Martin.  "  Come  in  !  " 

"It  an't  a  liberty,  sir,  though  it  seems  so,"  rejoined  a 
man's  voice.  "  Your  servant,  sir.  Hope  you're  pretty  well, 
sir." 

Martin  stared  at  the  face  that  was  bowing  in  the  doorway; 
perfectly  remembering  the  features  and  expression,  but  quite 
forgetting  to  whom  they  belonged. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  315 

"Tapley,  sir,"  said  his  visitor.  "  Him  as  formerly  lived 
at  the  Dragon,  sir,  and  was  forced  to  leave  in  consequence  of 
a  want  of  jollity,  sir." 

"To  be  sure  I "  cried  Martin.  "  Why,  how  did  you  come 
here?" 

"  Right  through  the  passage  and  up  the  stairs,  sir,"  said 
Mark. 

"  How  did  you  find  me  out,  I  mean?"  asked  Martin. 

"Why,  sir,"  said  Mark,  "I've  passed  you  once  or  twice 
in  the  street  if  I'm  not  mistaken;  and  when  I  was  a  looking 
in  at  the  beef-and-ham  shop  just  now,  along  with  a  hungry 
sweep,  as  was  very  much  calculated  to  make  a  man  jolly,  sir 
— I  see  you  a  buying  that." 

Martin  reddened  as  he  pointed  to  the  table,  and  said, 
somewhat  hastily: 

"Well!  what  then?" 

"  Why  then,  sir,"  said  Mark,  "  I  made  bold  to  foller;  and 
as  I  told  'em  down  stairs  that  you  expected  me,  I  was  let  up." 

"Are  you  charged  with  any  message,  that  you  told  them 
you  were  expected  ?  ' '  inquired  Martin. 

"  No,  sir,  I  a'n't,"  said  Mark.  "  That  was  what  you  may 
call  a  pious  fraud,  sir,  that  was. " 

Martin  cast  an  angry  look  at  him ;  but  there  was  some- 
thing in  the  fellow's  merry  face,  and  in  his  manner — which 
with  all  its  cheerfulness  was  far  from  being  obtrusive  or 
familiar — that  quite  disarmed  him.  He  had  lived  a  solitary 
life  too,  for  many  weeks,  and  the  voice  was  pleasant  in  his  ear. 

"Tapley,"  he  said,  "I'll  deal  openly  with  you.  From  all 
that  I  can  judge,  and  from  all  I  have  heard  of  you  through 
Pinch,  you  are  not  a  likely  kind  of  fellow  to  have  been 
brought  here  by  impertinent  curiosity  or  any  other  offensive 
motive.  Sit  down.  I'm  glad  to  see  you." 

"  Thankee,  sir,"  said  Mark.     "  I'd  as  lieve  stand." 

"  If  you  don't  sit  down,"  retorted  Martin,  "  I'll  not  talk 
to  you." 

"Very  good,  sir,"  observed  Mark.  "Your  will's  a  law, 
sir.  Down  it  is  ;"  and  he  sat  down  accordingly  upon  the  bed- 
stead. 

"  Help  yourself,"  said  Martin,  handing  him  the  only  knife. 


LITERATURE  OF  AI<I,  NATIONS. 

(l  Thankee,  sir,"  rejoined  Mark.     "  After  you've  done." 

u  If  you  don't  take  it  now,  you'll  not  have  any,"  said 
Martin. 

"  Very  good,  sir,"  rejoined  Mark.  "  That  being  your  de- 
sire— now  it  is."  With  which  reply  he  gravely  helped  him- 
self, and  went  on  eating.  Martin  having  done  the  like  for  a 
short  time  in  silence,  said,  abruptly, 

"  What  are  you  doing  in  London  ?" 

"  Nothing  at  all,  sir,"  rejoined  Mark. 

"  How's  that?"  asked  Martin. 

"  I  want  a  place,"  said  Mark. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  you,"  said  Martin,, 

11 — To  attend  upon  a  single  gentleman,"  resumed  Mark. 
"If  from  the  country,  the  more  desirable.  Make-shifts 
would  be  preferred.  Wages  no  object." 

He  said  this  so  pointedly,  that  Martin  stopped  in  his  eat- 
ing, and  said,  "  If  you  mean  me — " 

"  Yes,  I  do,  sir,"  interposed  Mark. 

u  Then  you  may  judge  from  my  style  of  living  here,  of 
my  means  of  keeping  a  man-servant.  Besides,  I  am  going 
to  America  immediately." 

"  Well,  sir,"  returned  Mark,  quite  unmoved  by  this  intel- 
ligence, "  from  all  that  ever  I  heard  about  it,  I  should  say 
America's  a  very  likely  sort  of  a  place  for  me  to  be  jolly  in!" 

Again  Martin  looked  at  him  angrily,  and  again  his  anger 
melted  away  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  Lord  bless  you,  sir,  said  Mark,  "  what  is  the  use  of  us 
going  round  and  round,  and  hiding  behind  the  corner,  and 
dodging  up  and  down,  when  we  can  come  straight  to  the 
point  in  six  words  !  I've  had  my  eye  upon  you  any  time  this 
fortnight.  I  see  well  enough  that  there's  a  screw  loose  in 
your  affairs.  I  know'd  well  enough  the  first  time  I  see  you 
down  at  the  Dragon  that  it  must  be  so,  sooner  or  later.  Now, 
sir,  here  I  am  without  a  sitiwation ;  without  any  want  of 
wages  for  a  year  to  come ;  for  I  saved  up  (I  didn't  mean  to  do 
it,  but  I  couldn't  help  it)  at  the  Dragon — here  am  I  with 
a  liking  for  what's  wentersome  and  a  liking  for  you,  and  a 
wish  to  come  out  strong  under  circumstances  as  would  keep 
other  men  down;  and  will  you  take  me,  or  will  you  leave  me?" 


KNGUSH   LITERATURE.  3:  7 

"  How  can  I  take  you  ?"  cried  Martin. 

"When  I  say  take,"  rejoined  Mark,  u  I  mean  will  you  let 
me  go ;  and  when  I  say  will  you  let  me  go,  I  mean  will  you 
let  me  go  along  with  you  ;  for  go  I  will,  somehow  or  another. 
Now  that  you've  said  America,  I  see  clear  at  once  that  that's 
the  place  for  me  to  be  jolly  in.  Therefore,  if  I  don't  pay  my 
own  passage  in  the  ship  you  go  in,  sir,  I'll  pay  my  own  pas- 
sage in  another.  And  mark  my  words:  if  I  go  alone,  it 
shall  be,  to  carry  out  the  principle,  in  the  rottenest,  craziest, 
leakingest  tub  of  a  vessel  that  a  place  can  be  got  in  for  love 
or  money.  So,  if  I'm  lost  upon  the  way,  sir,  there'll  be  a 
drowned  man  at  your  door,  and  always  a  knocking  double 
knocks  at  it,  too,  or  never  trust  me  1" 

"This  is  mere  folly, "  said  Martin. 

"  Very  good,  sir,"  returned  Mark.  "  I'm  glad  to  hear  it, 
because  if  you  don't  mean  to  let  me  go,  you'll  be  more  com- 
fortable, perhaps,  on  account  of  thinking  so.  Therefore,  I 
contradict  no  gentleman.  But,  all  I  say  is,  that  if  I  don't 
emigrate  to  America,  in  that  case,  in  the  beastliest  old  cockle- 
shell as  goes  out  of  port,  I'm — " 

"  You  don't  mean  what  you  say,  I'm  sure!"  said  Martin. 

"Yes,  I  do,"  cried  Mark. 

"  I  tell  you  I  know  better,"  rejoined  Martin. 

"Very  good,  sir,"  said  Mark,  with  the  same  air  of  perfect 
satisfaction.  "  I^et  it  stand  that  way  at  present,  sir,  and  wait 
to  see  how  it  turns  out.  Why,  love  my  heart  alive !  the  only 
doubt  I  have  is,  whether  there's  any  credit  in  going  with  a 
gentleman  like  you,  that's  as  certain  to  make  his  way  there 
as  a  gimlet  is  to  go  through  soft  deal." 

This  was  touching  Martin  on  his  weak  point,  and  having 
him  at  a  great  advantage.  He  could  not  help  thinking, 
either,  what  a  brisk  fellow  this  Mark  was,  and  how  great  a 
change  he  had  wrought  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  dismal  little 
room  already. 

"  Why,  certainly,  Mark,"  he  said,  "  I  have  hopes  of  doing 
well  there,  or  I  shouldn't  go.  I  may  have  the  qualifications 
for  doing  well,  perhaps." 

"Of  course  you  have,  sir,"  returned  Mark  Tapley. 
"  Everybody  knows  that." 


318  UTERATURE  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

"You  see,"  said  Martin,  leaning  his  chin  upon  his  hand, 
and  looking  at  the  fire,  "  ornamental  architecture  applied  to 
domestic  purposes  can  hardly  fail  to  be  in  great  request  in 
that  country ;  for  men  are  constantly  changing  their  resi- 
dences there,  and  moving  further  off;  and  it's  clear  they 
must  have  houses  to  live  in. ' ' 

"  I  should  say,  sir,"  observed  Mark,  "  that  that's  a  state  of 
things  as  opens  one  of  the  jolliest  look-outs  for  domestic 
architecture  that  ever  I  heerd  tell  on.' ' 

Martin  glanced  at  him  hastily,  not  feeling  quite  free  from 
a  suspicion  that  this  remark  applied  a  doubt  of  the  successful 
issue  of  his  plans.  But  Mr.  Tapley  was  eating  the  boiled 
beef  and  bread  with  such  entire  good  faith  and  singleness  of 
purpose  expressed  in  his  visage,  that  he  could  not  but  be 
satisfied.  Another  doubt  arose  in  his  mind,  however,  as  this 
one  disappeared.  He  produced  the  blank  cover  in  which  the 
[^*2o]  note  had  been  enclosed,  and  fixing  his  eyes  on  Mark 
as  he  put  it  in  his  hand,  said, 

( '  Now  tell  me  the  truth.  Do  you  know  anything  about 
that?" 

Mark  turned  it  over  and  over ;  held  it  near  his  eyes  ;  held 
it  away  from  him  at  arm's  length ;  held  it  with  the  super- 
scription upwards,  and  with  the  superscription  downwards; 
and  shook  his  head  with  such  a  genuine  expression  of  aston- 
ishment at  being  asked  the  question,  that  Martin  said,  as  he 
took  it  from  him  again, 

"No,  I  see  you  don't.  How  should  you?  Though,  in- 
deed, your  knowing  about  it  would  not  be  more  extraordin- 
ary than  its  being  here.  Come,  Tapley,"  he  added,  after  a 
moment's  thought,  a  I'll  trust  you  with  my  history,  such  as 
it  is,  and  then  you'll  see,  more  clearly,  what  sort  of  fortunes 
you  would  link  yourself  to,  if  you  followed  me. " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Mark;  "but  afore  you 
enter  upon  it,  will  you  take  me  if  I  choose  to  go  ?  Will  you 
turn  off  me — Mark  Tapley — formerly  of  the  Blue  Dragon,  as 
can  be  well  recommended  by  Mr.  Pinch,  and  as  wants  a  gen- 
tleman of  your  strength  of  mind  to  look  up  to  ;  or  will  you, 
in  climbing  the  ladder  as  you're  certain  to  get  to  the  top  of, 
take  me  along  with  you  at  a  respectful  distance  ?  Now,  sir," 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  319 

said  Mark,  uit>s  of  very  little  importance  to  you,  I  know 
— there's  the  difficulty;  but  it's  of  very  great  importance  to 
me  ;  and  will  you  be  so  good  as  to  consider  of  it  ?M 

If  this  were  meant  as  a  second  appeal  to  Martin's  weak 
side,  founded  on  his  observation  of  the  effect  of  the  first,  Mr. 
Tapley  was  a  skillful  and  shrewd  observer.  Whether  an  in- 
tentional or  an  accidental  shot,  it  hit  the  mark  full ;  for 
Martin,  relenting  more  and  more,  said,  with  a  condescension 
which  was  inexpressibly  delicious  to  him,  after  his  recent 
humiliation : 

"  We'll  see  about  it,  Tapley.  You  shall  tell  me  in  what 
disposition  yo\i  find  yourself  to-morrow." 

"  Then,  sir,"  said  Mark,  rubbing  his  hands,  "  the  job's 
done.  Go  on,  sir,  if  you  please.  I'm  all  attention." 

Throwing  himself  back  in  his  arm-chair,  and  looking  at 
the  fire,  with  now  and  then  a  glance  at  Mark,  who  at  such 
times  nodded  his  head  sagely,  to  express  his  profound  interest 
and  attention,  Martin  ran  over  the  chief  points  in  his  history. 

LITTLE  NELL  AND  HER  GRANDFATHER. 

(From  "Master  Humphrey's  Clock.") 

As  he  turned  the  key  in  the  lock,  he  surveyed  me  with 
some  astonishment,  which  was  not  diminished  when  he  looked 
from  me  to  my  companion.  The  door  being  opened,  the 
child  addressed  him  as  grandfather  and  told  him  the  little 
story  of  our  companionship. 

u  Why  bless  thee,  child,"  said  the  old  man,  patting  her  on 
the  head,  "  how  couldst  thou  miss  thy  way — what  if  I  had  lost 
thee,  Nell?" 

"I  would  have  found  my  way  back  to  you,  grandfather," 
said  the  child  boldly;  "  never  fear." 

The  old  man  kissed  her,  and  then  turning  to  me  and  beg- 
ging me  to  walk  in,  I  did  so.  The  door  was  closed  and  locked. 
Preceding  me  with  the  light,  he  led  me  through  the  place  I 
had  already  seen  from  without,  into  a  small  sitting  room 
behind,  in  which  was  another  door  opening  into  a  kind  of 
closet,  where  I  saw  a  little  bed  that  a  fairy  might  have  slept 
in,  it  looked  so  very  small  and  was  so  prettily  arranged.  The 


320  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

child  took  a  candle  and  tripped  into  this  little  room,  leaving 
the  old  man  and  me  together. 

"  You  must  be  tired,  sir,"  said  he,  as  he  placed  a  chair 
near  the  fire,  "  how  can  I  thank  you  ?  " 

"By  taking  more  care  of  your  grandchild  another  time, 
my  good  friend,"  I  replied. 

"More  care!"  said  the  old  man  in  a  shrill  voice,  "more 
care  of  Nelly  !  why,  who  ever  loved  a  child  as  I  love  Nell?  " 

He  said  this  with  such  evident  surprise  that  I  was  per- 
plexed what  answer  to  make,  and  the  more  so  because  coupled 
with  something  feeble  and  wandering  in  his  manner,  there 
were  in  his  face  marks  of  deep  and  anxious  thought,  which 
convinced  me  that  he  could  not  be,  as  I  had  at  first  been 
inclined  to  suppose,  in  a  state  of  dotage  and  imbecility. 

"  I  don't  think  you  consider" — I  began. 

"  I  don't  consider  !  "  cried  the  old  man,  interrupting  me, 
"  I  don't  consider  her !  ah,  how  little  you  know  of  the  truth  ! 
Little  Nelly,  little  Nelly  I  " 

It  would  be  impossible  for  any  man,  I  care  not  what  his 
form  of  speech  might  be,  to  express  more  affection  than  the 
dealer  in  curiosities  did,  in  these  four  words.  I  waited  for  him 
to  speak  again,  but  he  rested  his  chin  upon  his  hand  and  shak- 
ing his  head  twice  or  thrice  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  fire. 

While  we  were  sitting  thus  in  silence,  the  door  of  the  closet 
opened,  and  the  child  returned,  her  light  brown  hair  hanging 
loose  about  her  neck,  and  her  face  flushed  with  the  haste  she 
had  made  to  rejoin  us.  She  busied  herself  immediately  in 
preparing  supper,  and  while  she  was  thus  engaged  I  remarked 
that  the  old  man  took  an  opportunity  of  observing  me  more 
closely  than  he  had  done  yet.  I  was  surprised  to  see  that  all 
this  time  everything  was  done  by  the  child,  and  that  there 
appeared  to  be  no  other  persons  but  ourselves  in  the  house.  I 
took  advantage  of  a  moment  when  she  was  absent  to  venture 
a  hint  on  this  point,  to  which  the  old  man  replied  that  there 
were  few  grown-up  persons  as  trustworthy  or  as  careful  as  she. 

"It  always  grieves  me,"  I  observed,  roused  by  what  I  took 
to  be  his  selfishness,  ( '  it  always  grieves  me  to  contemplate  the 
initiation  of  children  into  the  ways  of  life,  when  they  are 
Scarcely  more  than  infants.  It  checks  their  confidence  and 


ENGUSH   LITERATURE.  321 

simplicity  —  two  of  the  best  qualities  that  Heaven  gives  them 
—  and  demands  that  they  share  our  sorrows  before  they  are 
capable  of  entering  into  our  enjoyments." 

"It  will  never  check  hers,"  said  the  old  man,  looking 
steadily  at  me,  "the  springs  are  too  deep.  Besides,  the  children 
of  the  poor  know  but  few  pleasures.  Even  the  cheap  delights 
of  childhood  must  be  bought  and  paid  for." 

"  But  —  forgive  me  for  saying  this  —  you  are  surely  not  so 
very  poor  "  —  said  I. 

"  She  is  not  my  child,  sir,"  returned  the  old  man.  "  Her 
mother  was,  and  she  was  poor.  I  save  nothing  —  not  a  penny  — 
though  I  live  as  you  see,  but"  —  lie  laid  his  hand  upon  my  arm 
and  leaned  forward  to  whisper,  "  She  shall  be  rich  one  of  these 
days,  and  a  fine  lady.  Don't  you  think  ill  of  me  because  I 
use  her  help.  She  gives  it  cheerfully,  as  you  see,  and  it  would 
break  her  heart  if  she  knew  that  I  suffered  anybody  else  to  do 
for  me  what  her  little  hands  could  undertake.  I  don't  con- 
sider !  "  he  cried  with  sudden  querulousness,  "why,  God  knows 
that  this  one  child  is  the  thought  and  object  of  my  life,  and 
yet  He  never  prospers  me  —  no,  never." 

At  this  juncture  the  subject  of  our  conversation  again  re- 
turned, and  the  old  man  motioning  to  me  to  approach  the  table 
broke  off,  and  said  no  more. 

We  had  scarcely  begun  our  repast  when  there  was  a  knock 
at  the  door  by  which  I  had  entered,  and  Nell,  bursting  into  a 
hearty  laugh,  which  I  was  rejoiced  to  hear,  for  it  was  child- 
like and  full  of  hilarity,  said  it  was  no  doubt  dear  old  Kit  come 
back  at  last. 

"  Foolish  Nell  !  "  said  the  old  man  fondling  with  her  hair. 
"  She  always  laughs  at  poor  Kit." 

The  child  laughed  again,  more  heartily  than  before,  and  I 
could  not  help  smiling  from  pure  sympathy.  The  little  old 
man  took  up  a  candle  and  went  to  open  the  door.  When  he 
came  back  Kit  was  at  his  heels. 

Kit  was  a  shock-headed,  shambling,  awkward  lad,  with  an 
Uncommonly  wide  mouth,  very  red  cheeks,  a  turned-up  nose, 
and  certainly  the  most  comical  expression  of  face  I  ever  saw. 
He  stopped  short  at  the  door  on  seeing  a  stranger,  twirled  in 
his  hand  a  perfectly  round  old  hat  without  any  vestige  of  a 


—  21 


322  UTERATURB  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

brim,  and  resting  himself  now  on  one  leg  and  now  on  the  other, 
and  changing  them  constantly,  stood  in  the  door-way,  looking 
into  the  parlor  with  the  most  extraordinary  leer  I  ever  beheld. 

* ( A  long  way,  wasn't  it,  Kit  ?  "  said  the  little  old  man. 

"  Why  then,  it  was  a  goodish  stretch,  master,"  returned  Kit. 

"  Did  you  find  the  house  easily  ? ;> 

"  Why  then,  not  over  and  above  easy,  master,"  said  Kit. 

u  Of  course  you  have  come  back  hungry?  " 

"Why  then,  I  do  consider  myself  rather  so,  master, "  was 
the  answer. 

The  lad  had  a  remarkable  way  of  standing  sideways  as  he 
spoke,  and  thrusting  his  head  forward  over  his  shoulder,  as  if 
he  could  not  get  at  his  voice  without  that  accompanying 
action.  I  think  he  would  have  amused  one  anywhere,  but  the 
child's  exquisite  enjoyment  of  his  oddity,  and  the  relief  it  was 
to  find  that  there  was  something  she  associated  with  merri- 
ment in  a  place  that  appeared  so  unsuited  to  her,  were  quite 
irresistible.  After  several  efforts  to  preserve  his  gravity,  Kit 
burst  into  a  loud  roar,  and  so  stood  with  his  mouth  wide  open 
and  his  eyes  nearly  shut,  laughing  violently. 

The  old  man  had  again  relapsed  into  his  former  abstrac- 
tion and  took  no  notice  of  what  passed,  but  I  remarked  that 
when  her  laugh  was  over,  the  child's  bright  eyes  were  dimmed 
with  tears,  called  forth  by  the  fulness  of  heart  with  which 
she  welcomed  her  uncouth  favorite  after  the  little  anxiety  of 
the  night.  As  for  Kit  himself  (whose  laugh  had  been  all 
the  time  one  of  that  sort  which  very  little  would  change  into 
a  cry)  he  carried  a  large  slice  of  bread  and  meat  and  a  mug 
of  beer  into  a  corner,  and  applied  himself  to  disposing  of 
them  with  great  voracity. 

"  Ah ! "  said  the  old  man,  turning  to  me  with  a  sigh,  as  if 
I  had  spoken  to  him  but  that  moment,  "you  don't  know  what 
you  say  when  you  tell  me  that  I  don't  consider  her." 

"You  must  not  attach  too  great  weight  to  a  rema^V 
founded  on  first  appearances,  my  friend,"  said  I. 

"No,"  returned  the  old  man  thoughtfully,  "no.  Come 
hither,  Nell." 

The  little  girl  hastened  from  her  seat,  and  put  her  arm 
about  his  neck. 


ENGUSH   UTBRATURB. 


323 


"  Do  I  love  thee,  Nell?  "  said  he.     "  Say— do  I  love  thee, 

Nell,  or  no?" 

The  child  only  answered  by  her  caresses,  and  laid  her  head 
upon  his  bieast. 

"  Why  dost  thou  sob?"  said  the  grandfather,  pressing  her 
closer  to  him  and  glancing 
towards  rne.  "  Is  it  because 
thou  know'st  I  love  thee 
and  dost  not  like  that  I 
should  seem  to  doubt  it  by 
my  question?  Well,  well 
— then  let  us  say  I  love 
thee  dearly." 

u  Indeed,  indeed  you 
do,"  replied  the  child  with 
great  earnestness,  "  Kit 
knows  you  do." 

Kit,  who  in  despatching 
his  bread  and  meat  had 
been  swallowing  two-thirds 
of  his  knife  at  every  mouth- 
ful with  the  coolness  of  a 
juggler,  stopped  short  in 
his  operations  on  thus 
being  appealed  to,  and 
bawled,  " Nobody  isn't  such  a  fool  as  to  say  he  doesn't," 
after  which  he  incapacitated  himself  for  further  conversation 
by  taking  a  most  prodigious  sandwich  at  one  bite. 

"She  is  poor  now" — said  the  old  man, patting  the  child's 
cheek,  "but  I  say  again  that  the  time  is  coming  when  she  shall 
be  rich.  It  has  been  a  long  time  coming,  but  it  must  come  at 
last ;  a  very  long  time,  but  it  surely  must  come.  It  has  come 
to  other  men  who  do  nothing  but  waste  and  riot.  When  will 
it  come  to  me?  " 

"  I  am  very  happy  as  I  am,  grandfather,"  said  the  child. 

"Tush,  tush!"  returned  the  old  man,  "thou  dost  not 
know — how  should'st  thou?"  Then  he  muttered  again 
between  his  teeth,  u  The  time  must  come,  I  am  very  sure  it 
must.  It  will  be  all  the  better  for  coming  late !  " 


GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

PERIOD  V.    PART  II.     1790-1830. 
THE  ROMANTICISTS. 


HE  Romantic  School  of  Germany  descended 
lineally  from  Jean  Paul  Richter,  who  said: 
"The  French  hold  the  empire  of  the  land,  the 
English  of  the  sea,  the  Germans  of-— the  air." 
Richter  had  himself  been  influenced  by  Fichte's 
transcendental  philosophy.  Fichte  and  Schelling 
became  the  seers  of  the  Romanticists.  In  his  "  Wissenschafts- 
lehre,"  Fichte  had  depicted  the  visible  world  as  only  the 
projected  creation  of  self  (ego\  which  shall  "always  hover 
entire  over  the  scattered  fragments  of  forms. "  The  pantheism 
and  mysticism  of  Schelling  deepened  this  influence  of  Fichte, 
whom  Emerson  has  crowned  King  of  the  Dreamland  of  Phi- 
losophy. Then  came  a  deepening  of  the  spiritual  insight,  a 
widening  of  the  imagination,  a  quickening  of  the  emotions, 
a  renascence  of  medievalism  and  mediaeval  art  in  a  sort  of 
Preraphaelite  sense,  but  modified  by  the  German  instinct  for 
the  weird  and  supernatural.  Novalis  found  a  mysticism, 
based  on  popular  tradition,  in  the  Catholic  Church,  as  revealed 
in  his  essay,  "  Christianity,  or  Europe,"  and  in  his  "  Hymns 
to  the  Night."  His  religiosity  was  deepened  by  the  death  of 
his  betrothed. 

As  Fichte  and  Schelling  held  sway  at  Jena  in  philosophy, 
so  the  brothers  Schlegel  ruled  there  in  a  court  of  literary 
aesthetics.  In  a  sense,  these  brothers  continued  Herder's  work 
of  glorifying  folk-song  and  folk-lore,  and  national  epics. 
August  Wilhelm  von  Schlegel  (1767-1845)  also  enlarged  the 
poetic  sensibilities  of  his  romantic  disciples  by  translating  six- 
324 


GERMAN  UTERATURK.  325 

tec  11  of  Shakespeare's  plays,  a  work  completed  under  Tieck's 
name.  Friedrich  von  Schlegel  devoted  some  attention  to 
Orientalism,  and  wrote  a  romance,  "Lucinde,"  which,  with 
Tieck's  u  William  Lovell,"  and  Novalis's  u  Heinrich  von  Ofter- 
dingen,"  embodies  the  romantic  ideal  of  individual  caprice 
sovereign  over  all  else.  But,  in  the  revival  of  the  old  folk- 
song and  lore,  these  brothers  were  aided  by  Brentano  and  Von 
Arniin  (uDes  Knaben  Wunderhorn "),  and  Tieck's  "Min- 
strelsy of  the  Swabian  Era."  And  those  two  tender-hearted, 
child-loving  brothers,  Jakob  and  Wilhelm  Grimm,  who 
founded  the  study  of  Teutonic  and  Norse  mythology  and 
grammar,  patient,  pious-minded  scholars  both,  retold  the 
"Kinder-  und  Haus-rnarchen "  (The  Nursery  and  Fireside 
Tales)  of  Germany  in  such  a  delightfully  naive  style  as 
appeals  to  all  children  throughout  the  world.  They  opened 
up  the  German  fairyland,  and  put  "Hansel  und  Gretel,"  and 
the  "  Schneewittchen  "  beside  Siegfried  and  Kriemhild.  No 
better  appreciation  of  their  tales  could  be  given  than  Wilhelm 
Grimm's  introduction.  Tieck  became  the  poetic  expositor  of 
the  old  folk-tale. 

But,  unfortunately,  the  Romanticists  did  not  stop  with  this 
work  of  spiritualizing  the  old  lore  and  song.  There  was  an 
imp  of  fantasy  in  their  blood.  Tieck's  title  of  "Phantastis  " 
might  apply  to  the  entire  school.  Tieck  himself  added  to  the 
ancient  Marchen  his  own  extravagant  inventions.  The 
romantic  formula  was  at  last  crystallized  into  the  definition: 
to  put  sentimental  material  into  fantastic  form.  Richter  had 
never  failed  to  contrast  the  ideal  with  the  real,  finding  a  theme 
for  his  peculiar  humor  in  the  prosaic  reality ;  but  the  Roman- 
ticists yielded  themselves  up  almost  entirely  to  dreams.  We 
get,  however,  a  touch  of  Jean  Paul  in  Chamisso's  u  Peter 
Schlemihl,"  and  in  portions  of  Tieck.  And  from  Fichte  the 
Romanticists  had  inherited  ua  romantic  irony  that  plays  with 
truth."  It  is  this  sceptical  spirit,  which  seems  to  mock  its 
own  creation,  that  adds  a  piquancy  to  the  works  of  the  half- 
satiric  Tieck. 

The  most  mystical  and  the  gentlest  of  the  Romanticists 
was  Novalis,  whose  real  name  was  Friedrich  von  Hardenberg 
(1772-1801).  This  young  poet's  career  may  be  seen  in  that  of 


326  UTERATURE  OF  AI<I<  NATIONS. 

the  hero  of  his  own  prose  idyl,  "  Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen." 
Novalis  possessed,  as  has  been  remarked,  "the  heightened 
sensitiveness  of  a  clairvoyant  united  to  the  freshness  of  a 
child."  He  longed  for  an  inner  transfiguration,  and  des- 
cribed actual  life  as  "  a  disease  of  the  spirit."  He  thus  poetized 
the  miraculous  and  the  spiritual,  and  reviled  the  Reformation. 

The  ideal  of  Christian  knighthood  hovers  ever  around  the 
fancies  of  Baron  Friedrich  de  la  Motte  Fouque  (1777-1843). 
As  Carlyle  remarks,  there  is  ever  in  the  background  of 
Fouque's  works  the  tilt-yard  and  the  chapel.  Under  the 
guidance  of  the  Schlegels  he  had  imbibed  the  lore  of  mediaeval, 
Moor-embattled  Spain,  with  its  romances  of  the  Cid  and  its 
Roncesvalles.  Turning  to  his  own  Teutonic  sources  Fouque 
sang  the  exploits  of  Sigurd,  and  of  "The  Hero  of  the  North,'* 
the  hero  of  the  Nibelungenlied.  For  his  romantic,  chivalrous 
spirit  reflected  in  this  poem  Jean  Paul  styled  the  poet  himself 
as  "Der  Tapfere"  (The  Valiant).  How  artificial  is  the  world 
of  Fouque*'s  chivalry  may  be  seen  in  his  romantic  tale, 
"Aslauga's  Knight,"  as  translated  by  Carlyle.  In  graceful, 
lightly  pathetic  style  he  wove  his  romantic  fiction,  seeking  to 
embody  the  ideals  of  heroic  virtue,  but  failing  really  to  wed 
the  old  with  the  new  order  of  things.  His  masterpiece  is  the 
charming  "Undine,''  a  story  of  a  water-spirit,  who  almost 
won  for  herself  a  human  soul. 

What  Fouque*  accomplished  for  the  romance,  L,udwig 
Tieck  (1773-1853)  achieved  for  the  Marchen.  His  half-satiric 
temper  made  him  utilize  many  of  the  simple  old  nursery  and 
familiar  fairy  tales  for  the  purpose  of  satire.  Thus,  in  a  dra- 
matic version  of  "  Puss-in-Boots "  he  held  Kotzebue  and 
Ifnand  up  to  scorn,  and  he  used  Bluebeard  also  for  a  satire. 
The  son  of  a  Berlin  rope-maker,  Tieck  never  quite  outgrew 
the  paternal  influence,  and  deserted  Romanticism  in  the  end. 
It  is  only  necessary  here  to  speak  in  particular  of  his  popular 
tales,  "Peter  L,eberrechts  Volksmarchen,"  and  his  "Phant- 
asus."  There  is  a  mystic  fairy  charm  to  all  these  eccentric 
works.  Among  his  best-known  tales  are  "The  Old  Book  and 
the  Scarecrow,"  "The  Witches'  Sabbath,"  "The  Goblet," 
"The  Elves,"  and  "The  Philtre."  His  novelette  of  "The 
Pictures"  contains  a  strong  figure  in  the  graceless  old  painter 


GERMAN  LITERATURE.  327 

Eulenbock,  who  persists  in  forging  old  masters  despite  an 
original  genius  of  his  own.  In  "  Franz  Sternbald's  Wander- 
ings" he  sought  to  depict  a  spiritual  antitype  to  Goethe's 
"  Wilhelm  Meister."  Tieck  also  told  the  Tannhauser  legend 
in  his  "Eckart." 

The  wildest,  perhaps,  of  the  Romanticists  (if  we  except 
Heinrich  von  Kleist,  who  committed  suicide)  was  Ernst  The- 
odor  Amadetis  Hoffmann  (1776-1822),  a  strangely  versatile 
prodigy,  who  could  draw  caricatures,  compose  operas  (one  to  a 
libretto  by  Kotzebue),  and  write  tales  reveling  in  supernatural 
horrors.  Meanwhile  he  spent  his  days  as  a  jurist  and  his 
nights  in  drunken  sprees.  The  demoniac  element  is  con- 
spicuous throughout  his  tales.  He  won  his  fame  as  a  Roman- 
ticist by  his  "Fantasies  in  Callot's  Style."  Other  notable 
works  are  his  "Elixir  of  the  Devil,"  his  "Night  Fantasies," 
and  his  "Sarapion  Brothers."  Among  his  best  stories  are 
"The  Golden  Pot"  and  "  Master  Martin  and  his  Comrades" 
— this  latter  being  regarded  as  his  master-piece.  It  is  a  story 
of  ancient  Nuremberg.  His  ghosts  and  doubles  often  border 
on  the  grotesque,  however,  and  Carlyle  has  styled  his  treat- 
ment of  his  themes  as  "  false,  brawling,  and  tawdry." 

Here  may  be  dismissed  with  a  passing  word  Frederick  L/ud- 
wig  Zacharias  Werner  and  his  monstrous  "Fate-Tragedy;" 
Ludwig  Achim  von  Arnim,  with  his  novel  of  the  Reforma- 
tion, "The  Guardians  of  the  Rhine;  "  Clemens  Brentano,  who 
told  the  naive  "Tale  of  Kasperl  and  Pretty  Annerl,"  and 
Joseph  von  Eichendorff,  whose  celebrated  prose  story,  full  of 
nature  worship,  is  "The  Life  of  a  Good-for-Nothing."  Bren- 
tano's  "  Bacharach  on  the  Rhine"  was  adapted  by  Heine  in 
his  famous  "  Lorelei." 


JEAN  PAUL  RICHTER. 

GERMANY'S  greatest  humorist  is  Jean 
Paul  Richter  (1763-1825),  called  by  his  admirers  Jean  Paul 
the  Unique.  Heine  acknowledged  an  inestimable  debt  to 
his  influence,  and  Thomas  Carlyle  describes  him,  in  character- 
istic fashion,  as  "that  vast  World-Maelstrom  of  Humor. " 
In  one  of  his  incomparable  essays  on  this  strange  German 
genius,  Carlyle  says :  u  In  the  whole  circle  of  literature,  we 
look  in  vain  for  his  parallel.  Unite  the  sportfulness  of  Rabe- 
lais, and  the  best  sensibility  of  Sterne,  with  the  earnestness, 
and,  even  in  slight  portions,  the  sublimity  of  Milton ;  and 
let  the  mosaic  brain  of  old  Burton  give  forth  the  workings  of 
this  strange  union,  with  the  pen  of  Jeremy  Bentham ! ' ' 

Readers  of  Carlyle' s  two  essays  on  Richter,  with  their 
sympathetic  insight  into  the  odd  twistings  and  solecistic 
peculiarities  of  the  German's  style,  will  see  what  an  affinity 
exists  between  subject  and  rhapsodist.  Even  in  diction  the 
two  are  brothers ;  the  Germans  themselves  read  Richter  by 
the  aid  of  a  special  dictionary !  Indeed,  without  so  much 
license  as  is  usually  the  case  in  literary  comparison,  we  may 
style  Richter  the  German  Carlyle ;  or,  from  a  strict  chron- 
ological standpoint,  pronounce  Carlyle  the  British  Richter. 
Carlyle  himself  confesses  of  Richter  what  many  of  Carlyle' s 
readers  have  found  true  of  "  Sartor  Resartus" — that  u  with- 
out great  patience  and  some  considerable  catholicity  of  dis- 
position, no  reader  is  likely  to  prosper  much  with  them.'* 
Richter' s  quips  and  conceits  move  along  in  an  anarchy  of 
art-form  like  "  parti-colored  mob-masses."  He  is  a  humor- 
ist, moreover,  heartily  and  throughout ;  not  only  in  the  low 
328 


GERMAN  UTBRATURB.  329 

provinces  of  thought,  but  in  the  loftiest  provinces.  His  fan- 
tastic dreamings  sport  even  with  the  transcendental.  A  con- 
temporary of  Goethe  and  Schiller,  he  could  not  **  fall  in  with 
those  two,"  and  they  regarded  him  with  curious  wonder.  To 
Schiller  he  seemed  "  foreign,  like  a  man  fallen  from  the 
moon.n  That  poet  declared  :  u  If  Richter  had  made  as  good 
use  of  his  riches  as  other  men  made  of  their  poverty,  he 
would  have  been  worthy  of  the  highest  meed  of  genius." 
And,  in  spite  of  his  extravagant  and  lawless  style,  modeled 
upon  his  favorite  Sterne,  his  wild  tissue  of  metaphors  and 
similes,  and  his  capricious  conceits,  no  reader  of  Richter  can 
fail  to  get  a  glimpse  of  a  splendor  of  disordered  genius,  of  a 
fertile  imagination.  He  is  one  of  the  great  nature-painters 
of  the  world.  He  has  given  us  fascinating  pictures  of  child- 
hood, youth,  friendship  and  love. 

Himself  the  son  of  a  poor  country  pastor,  and  long  the 
slave  of  pinching  poverty,  he  wrote  in  "  Siebenkaes :"  "All 
sins  arise  from  poverty,  but  there  are  joys  and  virtues  in 
every  class.  Therefore,  fiction  should  paint  joy  in  poverty." 
And  in  the  pages  of  his  voluminous  novels — in  such  figures 
as  Wuz,  as  Quintus  Fixlein,  as  Siebenkaes  and  his  friend 
L,iebgeber,  as  Dr.  Katzenberger  and  others,  we  truly  behold 
the  German  life,  domestic  and  civil,  of  a  hundred  years  ago, 
with  all  its  charms  and  all  its  foibles,  its  innocence  and  ab- 
surdity, its  pedantry  and  its  freedom,  its  sordid  limitations 
not  preventing  generous  development  or  sport.  What  an 
idyllic  picture  is  that  of  the  wedding  of  Fixlein  and  his 
beloved  Thiennette. 

"  A  huge,  irregular  man,  both  in  mind  and  person,  full 
of  fire,  strength,  and  impetuosity ,' '  Carlyle  describes  him, 
yet  admiringly  adds :  u  His  thoughts,  his  feelings,  the  crea- 
tions of  his  spirit,  walk  before  us  embodied  under  wondrous 
shapes,  in  motley  and  ever-fluctuating  groups  ;  but  his  essen- 
tial character,  however  he  disguise  it,  is  that  of  a  phil- 
osopher and  moral  poet,  whose  study  has  been  human  nature, 
whose  delight  and  best  endeavor  are  with  all  that  is  beauti- 
ful and  tender,  and  mysteriously  sublime,  in  the  fate  or 
history  of  man.'1  The  critic  continues:  "In  him  philoso- 
phy and  poetry  are  not  only  reconciled,  but  blended  together 


330  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

into  a  purer  essence,  into  religion.' '.  To  appreciate  the  full 
significance  of  this  verdict,  one  has  only  to  read  the  wonder- 
ful dream  (Richter  is  full  of  famous  dreams)  of  a  Godless 
Universe,  found  in  the  first  chapter  or  "  flower-piece"  of  his 
"Siebenkaes." 

His  "  lawless,  untutored  half-savage  face,"  which  always 
gave  forth  everything  (philosophical  treatises,  and  even  his 
Autobiography)  encased  in  some  quaint  fantastic  framing,  was 
the  victim  of  an  irregular  education,  due  to  poverty.  Born 
in  the  mountain  district  of  Fichtelgebirge,  four  years  after 
Schiller,  the  son  of  a  debt-burdened  pastor,  he  was  obliged 
to  endure  all  manner  of  poverty's  stings.  He  had  only  water 
sometimes,  and  not  even  prisoners'  bread  ;  and  had  finally  to 
flee  from  Leipzig  to  escape  a  debtor's  prison.  Ten  years  he 
toiled,  sustained  by  his  widowed  mother's  brave  trust  in  him, 
until  with  "The  Invisible  Lodge  "  (1793)  and  "Hesperus" 
(1795)  he  attained  fame.  Later  he  shone  at  Weimar,  apart 
from  Goethe  and  Schiller,  and  enjoyed  a  pension  during  his 
last  years  in  Baireuth,  Bavaria. 

His  early  satires,  written  in  the  bitterness  of  an  empty 
purse  and  stomach,  were  u  Lawsuits  in  Greenland,"  "Selec- 
tions from  the  Papers  of  the  Devil, "  and  "Biographical 
Recreations  under  the  Cranium  of  a  Giantess.' '  Odd  titles, 
truly,  and  odder  style. 

His  quaint   novels  followed:    "The   Invisible   Lodge," 
"The  Years  of  Wild  Oats,"  "Life  of  Fixlein,"  "Parson  in 
Jubilee,"    "Schmelzle's    Journey   to    the    Bath,"    "Life   of 
Fibel,"  "Hesperus,"  and  "Titan."     The  three  greatest  of 
these   (deemed   by  Richter   as   his   masterpieces)  are  "Wild 
Oats,"  "  Hesperus,"  and  "  Titan,"  evidently  inspired  as  a  re- 
ply to  the  too  earthly  realism  of  Goethe's  Wilhelni  Meister. 
Richter  tried  in  these  novels  to  portray  an  equally  roundly 
developed  manhood,  possessed,  however,  of  a  higher  spiritu- 
ality. 

The  stupendous  sentimentality  of  Richter  is  seen  in 
"  Hesperus,"  wherein  Viktor  exclaims,  "  Give  me  two  days, 
or  one  night,  and  I  will  fall  in  love  with  whomever  you 
choose."  "Wild  Oats"  is  the  story  of  twin  brothers,  Walt 
and  Vult,  who  represent  L/ove  and  Knowledge,  or  the  con- 


GERMAN   LITERATURE.  331 

trast  between  the  dreamy  and  practical — u  Opposite  Magnets," 
says  Richter.  "  Titan"  represents  force  struggling  with  the 
divine  harmony,  and  proving  that  idealism  must  be  mingled 
with  realism. 

"  Quintus  Fixlein  "  is  an  idyl  of  family  life,  containing  a 
scene  of  a  bridal  couple's  visit  to  the  graves  of  the  loves  that 
have  gone  before.  Equally  whimsical  is  his  genre  work, 
"  Flower,  Fruit  and  Thorn  Pieces,  or  Marriage,  Death  and 
Wedding  of  Lawyer  Siebenkaes."  Another  idyl  of  lowly 
life  is  that  of  "The  Happy  Little  Schoolmaster,  Maria 
Wrez."  His  genius  is  at  its  wildest  in  "  The  Comet,"  the 
tale  of  Nicolaus  Marggraf,  who  has  a  great  chemical  idea. 

Of  his  aesthetic  and  educational  works  there  is  no  need  to 
speak  here,  and  we  will  only  mention  his  patriotic  anti- 
Napoleonic  "  Twilight  Thoughts  for  Germany,"  and  "Fast 
Sermons  during  Germany's  Martyr- Week." 

QUINTUS  FIXLEIN'S  WEDDING. 

(From  "The  Life  of  Quintus  Fixlein.") 

RISE,  fair  Ascension  and  Marriage  day,  and  gladden  read- 
ers also!  Adorn  thyself  with  the  fairest  jewel,  with  the 
bride,  whose  soul  is  as  pure  and  glittering  as  its  vesture ;  like 
pearl  and  pearl-mussel,  the  one  as  the  other,  lustrous  and 
ornamental !  And  so  over  the  espalier,  whose  fruit-hedge  has 
hitherto  divided  our  darling  from  his  Bden,  every  reader  now 
presses  after  him  ! 

On  the  9th  of  May,  1793,  about  three  in  the  morning, 
there  came  a  sharp  peal  of  trumpets,  like  a  light-beam, 
through  the  dim-red  May-dcr.vn :  two  twisted  horns  with  ? 
straight  trumpet  between  them,  like  a  note  of  admiration 
between  interrogation-points,  were  clanging  from  a  house  in 
which  only  a  parishioner  (not  the  Parson)  dwelt  and  blew  ;  for 
this  parishioner  had  last  night  been  celebrating  the  same 
ceremony  which  the  pastor  had  this  day  before  him.  The 
joyful  tallyho  raised  our  parson  from  his  broad  bed  (and  the 
Shock  from  beneath  it,  who  some  weeks  ago  had  been  exiled 
from  the  white  sleek  coverlid),  and  this  so  early,  that  in  the 
portraying  tester,  where  on  every  former  morning  he  had  ob- 


33  2  WTERATURS  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

served  his  ruddy  visage,  and  his  white  bedclothes,  all  was  at 
present  dim  and  crayoned. 

I  confess,  the  new-painted  room,  and  a  gleam  of  dawn  on 
the  wall,  made  it  so  light,  that  he  could  see  his  knee-buckles 
glancing  on  the  chair.  He  then  softly  awakened  his  mother 
(the  other  guests  were  to  lie  for  hours  in  the  sheets),  and  she 
had  the  city  cook-maid  to  awaken,  who,  like  several  other 
articles  of  wedding- furniture,  had  been  borrowed  for  a  day  or 
two  from  Flachsenfingen.  At  two  doors  he  knocked  in  vain, 
and  without  answer ;  for  all  were  already  down  at  the  hearth, 
cooking,  blowing,  and  arranging. 

How  softly  does  the  Spring  day  gradually  fold  back  its 
nun-veil,  and  the  Earth  grow  bright,  as  if  it  were  the  morn- 
ing of  a  Resurrection ! — The  quicksilver-pillar  of  the  barom- 
eter, the  guiding  Fire-pillar  of  the  weather-prophet,  rests 
firmly  on  Fixlein's  Ark  of  the  Covenant.  The  Sun  raises 
himself,  pure  and  cool,  into  the  morning-blue,  instead  of  into 
the  morning-red.  Swallows,  instead  of  clouds,  shoot  skim- 
ming through  the  melodious  air.  .  .  .  Oh,  the  good  Genius  of 
Fair  Weather,  who  deserves  many  temples  and  festivals  (be- 
cause without  him  no  festival  could  be  held),  lifted  an  ethereal 
azure  Day,  as  it  were,  from  the  well-clear  atmosphere  of  the 
moon,  and  sent  it  down  on  blue  butterfly-wings — as  if  it  were 
a  blue  Monday — glittering  below  the  Sun,  in  the  zigzag  of 
joyful  quivering  descent,  upon  the  narrow  spot  of  Earth, 
which  our  heated  fancies  are  now  viewing.  .  .  .  And  on  this 
balmy,  vernal  spot,  stand  amid  flowers,  over  which  the  trees 
are  shaking  blossoms  instead  of  leaves,  a  bride  and  a  bride- 
groom  Happy  Fixlein !  how  shall  I  paint  thee  with- 
out deepening  the  sighs  of  longing  in  the  fairest  souls  ? 

But  soft!  we  will  not  drink  the  magic  cup  of  Fancy  to 
the  bottom,  at  six  in  the  morning ;  but  keep  sober  till  to- 
wards night! 

At  the  sound  of  the  morning  prayer-bell,  the  bridegroom 
— for  the  din  of  preparation  was  disturbing  his  quiet  orison 
— went  out  into  the  church-yard,  which  (as  in  many  other 
places)  together  with  the  church,  lay  round  his  mansion  like 
a  court.  Here,  on  the  moist  green,  over  whose  closed  flowers 
the  church-yard  wall  was  still  spreading  broad  shadows,  did 


GERMAN   LITERATURE.  333 

his  spirit  cool  itself  from  the  warm  dreams  of  Earth :  here 
his  mood  grew  softer  and  more  solemn;  and  he  now  lifted  up 
by  heart  his  morning  prayer,  which  usually  he  read ;  and  en- 
treated God  to  bless  him  in  his  office,  and  to  spare  his  mother's 
life,  and  to  look  with  favor  and  acceptance  on  the  purpose  of 
to-day. — Then,  over  the  graves,  he  walked  into  his  fenceless 
little  angular  flower-garden ;  and  here,  composed  and  confi- 
dent in  the  divine  keeping,  he  pressed  the  stalks  of  his  tulips 
deeper  into  the  mellow  earth. 

But  on  returning  to  the  house,  he  was  met  on  all  hands 
by  the  bell-ringing  and  the  Janizary-music  of  wedding-glad- 
ness ; — the  marriage-guests  had  all  thrown  off  their  night- 
caps, and  were  drinking  diligently ; — there  was  a  clattering, 
a  cooking,  a  frizzling ; — tea-services,  coffee-services,  and  warm- 
beer-services,  were  advancing  in  succession ;  and  plates  full 
of  bride-cakes  were  going  round  like  potters'  frames  or  cistern- 
wheels. — The  Schoolmaster,  with  three  young  lads,  was 
heard  rehearsing  from  his  own  house  an  Arioso,  with  which, 
so  soon  as  they  were  perfect,  he  purposed  to  surprise  his 
clerical  superior. — But  now  rushed  all  the  arms  of  the  foam- 
ing joy-streams  into  one,  when  the  sky-queen  besprinkled 
with  blossoms,  the  bride,  descended  on  Earth  in  her  timid 
joy,  full  of  quivering,  humble  love ; — when  the  bells  began  ; 
— when  the  procession-column  set  forth  with  the  whole  vil- 
lage round  and  before  it ; — when  the  organ,  the  congregation, 
the  officiating  priest,  and  the  sparrows  on  the  trees  of  the 
church -window,  struck  louder  and  louder  their  rolling  peals  on 
the  drum  of  the  jubilee-festival.  .  .  .  The  heart  of  the  sing- 
ing bridegroom  was  like  to  leap  from  its  place  for  joy,  * l  that 
on  his  bridal-day,  it  was  all  so  respectable  and  grand." — Not 
till  the  marriage  benediction  could  he  pray  a  little. 

Still  worse  and  louder  grew  the  business  during  dinner, 
when  pastry-work  and  marchpane  devices  were  brought  for- 
ward, 7— when  glasses,  and  slain  fishes  (laid  under  the  napkins 
to  frighten  the  guests)  went  round ; — and  when  the  guests 
rose,  and  themselves  went  round,  and  at  length  danced 
round  ;  for  they  had  instrumental  music  from  the  city  there. 

One  minute  handed  over  to  the  other  the  sugar-bowl  and 
bottle-case  of  joy ;  the  guests  heard  and  saw  less  and  less, 


334  LITERATURE  OF  AU<  NATIONS. 

and  the  villagers  began  to  see  and  hear  more  and  more,  and 
towards  night  they  penetrated  like  a  wedge  into  the  open 
door, — nay,  two  youths  ventured  even  in  the  middle  of  the 
parsonage  court,  to  mount  a  plank  over  a  beam  and  com- 
mence seesawing. — Out  of  doors,  the  gleaming  vapor  of  the 
departed  Sun  was  encircling  the  Earth,  the  evening  star  was 
glittering  over  parsonage  and  church  yard  ;  no  one  heeded  it. 

However,  about  nine  o'clock,  when  the  marriage  guests 
had  well  nigh  forgotten  the  marriage-pair,  and  were  drinking 
or  dancing  along  for  their  own  behoof;  when  poor  mortals, 
in  this  sunshine  of  Fate,  like  fishes  in  the  sunshine  of  the 
sky,  were  leaping  up  from  their  wet  cold  element ;  and  when 
the  bridegroom,  under  the  star  of  happiness  and  love,  casting 
like  a  comet  its  long  train  of  radiance  over  all  his  heaven, 
had  in  secret  pressed  to  his  joy-filled  breast  his  bride  and  his 
mother, — then  did  he  lock  a  slice  of  wedding-bread  privily 
into  a  press,  in  the  old  superstitious  belief,  that  this  residue 
secured  continuance  of  bread  for  the  whole  marriage.  As  he 
returned,  with  greater  love  for  the  sole  partner  of  his  life, 
she  herself  met  him  with  his  mother,  to  deliver  him  in  pri- 
vate the  bridal  nightgown  and  bridal  shirt,  as  is  the  ancient 
usage.  Many  a  countenance  grows  pale  in  violent  emotions, 
even  of  joy :  Thiennette's  wax-face  was  bleaching  still  whiter 
under  the  sunbeams  of  Happiness.  Oh,  never  fall,  thou  lily 
of  Heaven,  and  may  four  springs  instead  of  four  seasons  open 
and  shut  thy  flower-bells  to  the  sun ! — All  the  arms  of  his 
soul  as  he  floated  on  the  sea  of  joy  were  quivering  to  clasp 
the  soft  warm  heart  of  his  beloved,  to  encircle  it  gently  and 
fast,  and  draw  it  to  his  own. 

He  led  her  from  the  crowded  dancing-room  into  the  cool 
evening.  Why  does  the  evening,  does  the  night  put  warmer 
love  in  our  hearts  ?  Is  it  the  nightly  pressure  of  helpless- 
ness? or  is  it  the  exalting  separation  from  the  turmoil  of 
life  ;  that  veiling  of  the  world,  in  which  for  the  soul  nothing 
more  remains  but  souls  ? — is  it  therefore,  that  the  letters  in 
which  the  loved  name  stands  written  on  our  spirit  appear, 
like  phosphorus-writing,  by  night,  in  fire,  while  by  day  in 
their  cloudy  traces  they  but  smoke  ? 

He  walked  with  his  bride  into  the  Castle  garden ;  she 


GERMAN  LITERATURE.  335 

hastened  quickly  through  the  Castle,  and  past  its  servants' 
hall,  where  the  fair  flowers  of  her  young  life  had  been  crushed 
broad  and  dry,  under  a  long  dreary  pressure  ;  and  her  soul  ex- 
panded, and  breathed  in  the  free  open  garden,  on  whose 
flowery  soil  destiny  had  cast  forth  the  first  seeds  of  the  blos- 
soms which  to  day  were  gladdening  her  existence.  Still 
Eden!  Green  flower-chequered  chiaroscuro! — The  moon  is 
sleeping  under  ground  like  a  dead  one ;  but  beyond  the  gar- 
den the  sun's  red  evening-clouds  have  fallen  down  like  rose- 
leaves  ;  and  the  evening-star,  the  brideman  of  the  sun,  hovers, 
like  a  glancing  butterfly,  above  the  rosy  red,  and,  modest  as  a 
bride,  deprives  no  single  starlet  of  its  light. 

The  wandering  pair  arrived  at  the  old  gardener's  hut ;  now 
standing  locked  and  dumb,  with  dark  windows  in  the  light 
garden,  like  a  fragment  of  the  Past  surviving  in  the  Present. 
Bared  twigs  of  trees  were  folding,  with  clammy  half-formed 
leaves,  over  the  thick  intertwisted  tangles  of  the  bushes. — 
The  Spring  was  standing,  like  a  conqueror,  with  Winter  at 
his  feet. — In  the  blue  pond,  now  bloodless,  a  dusky  evening 
sky  lay  hollowed  out,  and  the  gushing  waters  were  moisten- 
ing the  flower-beds. — The  silver  sparks  of  stars  were  rising 
on  the  altar  of  the  Hast,  and  falling  down  extinguished  in 
the  red  sea  of  the  West. 

The  wind  whirred,  like  a  night-bird,  louder  through  the 
trees,  and  gave  tone  to  the  acacia  grove ;  and  the  tones  called 
to  the  pair  who  had  first  become  happy  within  it :  u  Enter, 
new  mortal  pair,  and  think  of  what  is  past,  and  of  my  wither- 
ing and  your  own ;  and  be  holy  as  Eternity,  and  weep  not 
only  for  joy,  but  for  gratitude  also ! " — And  the  wet-eyed 
bridegroom  led  his  wet-eyed  bride  under  the  blossoms,  and 
laid  his  soul,  like  a  flower,  on  her  heart,  and  said:  uBest 
Thiennette,  I  am  unspeakably  happy,  and  would  say  much, 
and  cannot. — Ah,  thou  Dearest,  we  will  live  like  angels, 
like  children  together !  Surely  I  will  do  all  that  is  good  to 
thee;  two  years  ago  I  had  nothing,  no,  nothing;  ah,  it  is 
through  thee,  best  love,  that  I  am  happy.  I  call  thee  Thou, 
now,  thou  dear  good  soul  !"  She  drew  him  closer  to  her,  and 
said,  though  without  kissing  him :  "  Call  me  Thou  always, 
Dearest!" 


$36  LITERATURE  OF  AU/  NATIONS. 


NOVAUS. 

NOVAUS  was  the  assumed  name  of  Friedrich  von  Harden- 
berg,  born  in  Saxony  in  1772.  His  parents  belonged  to  the 
Moravian  Brethren,  and  he  was  thoroughly  permeated  with 
their  mystical  spirit,  yet  eventually  he  passed  into  the  Roman 
Catholic  communion.  He  was  educated  at  the  University  of 
Jena,  where  he  studied  law,  though  his  later  studies  were  with 
reference  to  the  salt-works  with  which  his  father  was  con- 
nected. The  tall  and  graceful,  but  shy,  meditative  youth 
attracted  the  favor  of  Schiller,  whom  he  warmly  admired. 
The  early  death  of  his  betrothed  greatly  affected  him,  yet 
after  some  years,  he  was  again  engaged,  and  was  preparing 
for  marriage  when  a  hemorrhage  gave  warning  of  his  end. 
He  died  at  the  age  of  twenty-nine.  His  writings,  mostly 
fragmentary,  were  collected  and  edited  by  Tieck  and  Schlegel. 
The  most  complete  is  his  romance,  u  Heinrich  von  Ofterdin- 
gen,"  in  which  his  love  of  the  Middle  Ages,  his  idealist 
philosophy  and  his  passion  for  spiritual  beauty,  are  most  fully 
shown.  Heinrich  was  one  of  the  minstrels  said  to  have  taken 
part  in  the  Battle  of  the  Bards  at  Wartburg.  Novalis  con- 
verts him  into  a  dreamy  idealist,  or  rather  spiritualist,  seeking 
the  mystic  Blue  Flower,  by  which  the  spirit  of  ideal  poesy  is 
symbolized.  In  his  quest  Heinrich  reaches  a  stage  where 
"men,  beasts,  plants,  stones,  stars,  elements,  sounds,  colors, 
commune  with  each  other  like  one  race,"  and  he  is  himself 
transformed  successively  into  a  rock,  a  singing  tree,  and  a 
golden  wether.  Such  fantastic  pantheism  as  this  really 
dwells  also  at  the  bottom  of  Novalis's  otherwise  beautiful 
mystic  "Hymns  to  the  Night."  His  Orphic  utterances  be- 
long to  the  borderland  between  religion  and  poetry. 

THE  POET'S  DAUGHTER. 

(From  "Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen.") 

THE  journey  was  now  ended.  It  was  toward  evening  when 
our  travelers  arrived,  safe  and  in  good  spirits,  in  the  world- 
renowned  city  of  Augsburg,  and  rode  through  the  lofty  streets 
to  the  house  of  old  Schwaning.  .  .  .  They  found  the  house 


GERMAN  UTBRATURB.  337 

illuminated,  and  a  merry  music  reached  their  ears.  "  What 
will  you  wager, "  said  the  merchants,  "  that  your  grandfather 
is  giving  a  merry  entertainment?  We  come  as  if  called. 
How  surprised  he  will  be  at  the  uninvited  guests!  Little 
does  he  dream  that  the  true  festival  is  now  to  begin."  .  .  . 

Among  the  guests,  Heinrich  had  noticed  a  man  who  ap- 
peared to  be  the  person  that  he  had  seen  often  at  his  side,  in 
that  book.  His  noble  aspect  distinguished  him  before  all  the 
rest.  A  cheerful  earnestness  was  the  spirit  of  his  counte- 
nance. An  open,  beautifully  arched  brow ;  great,  black, 
piercing  and  firm  eyes ;  a  roguish  trait  about  the  merry  mouth, 
and  altogether  clear  and  manly  proportions  made  it  significant 
and  attractive.  He  was  strongly  built,  his  movements  were 
easy  and  full  of  expression,  and  where  he  stood,  it  seemed  as 
if  he  would  stand  forever.  Heinrich  asked  his  grandfather 
about  him.  "  I  am  glad,"  said  the  old  man,  "that  you  have 
remarked  him  at  once.  It  is  my  excellent  friend  Klingsohr, 
the  poet.  Of  his  acquaintance  and  friendship  you  may  be 
prouder  than  of  the  emperor's.  But  how  stands  it  with  your 
heart?  He  has  a  beautiful  daughter  ;  perhaps  she  will  sup- 
plant the  father  in  your  regards.  I  shall  be  surprised  if  you 
have  not  observed  her."  Heinrich  blushed.  u I  was  absent, 
dear  grandfather.  The  company  was  numerous,  and  I  noticed 
only  your  friend."  u  It  is  very  easy  to  see,"  replied  Schwan- 
ing,  "  that  you  are  from  the  North.  We  will  soon  find  means 
to  thaw  you  here.  You  shall  soon  learn  to  look  out  for 
pretty  eyes." 

The  old  Schwaning  led  Heinrich  to  Klingsohr,  and  told 
him  how  Heinrich  had  observed  him  at  once,  and  felt  a  very 
lively  desire  to  be  acquainted  with  him.  Heinrich  was  diffi- 
dent. Klingsohr  spoke  to  him  in  a  very  friendly  manner  of 
his  country  and  his  journey.  There  was  something  so  confi- 
dential in  his  voice,  that  Heinrich  soon  took  heart  and  con- 
versed with  him  freely.  After  some  time  Schwaning  returned, 
and  brought  with  him  the  beautiful  Mathilde.  "  Have  com- 
passion on  my  shy  grandson,  and  pardon  him  for  seeing  your 
father  before  he  did  you.  Your  gleaming  eyes  will  awaken 
his  slumbering  youth.  In  his  country  the  spring  is  late." 

Heinrich  and   Mathilde  colored.     They  looked  at  each 

IX— 22 


338  UTERATURE  OP  AU<  NATIONS. 

other  with  wondering  eyes.  She  asked  him  with  gentle, 
scarce  audible  words  :  "Did  he  like  to  dance?"  Just  as  he 
was  affirming  this  question  a  merry  dancing-music  struck  up. 
Silently  he  offered  her  his  hand,  she  gave  hers,  and  they 
mingled  in  the  ranks  of  the  waltzing  pairs.  Schwaning  and 
Klingsohr  looked  on.  The  mother  and  the  merchant  rejoiced 
in  Heinrich' s  activity,  and  in  his  beautiful  partner.  .  .  .  Hem- 
rich  wished  the  dance  never  to  end.  With  intense  satisfaction 
his  eye  rested  on  the  roses  of  his  partner.  Her  innocent  eye 
shunned  him  not.  She  seemed  the  spirit  of  her  father  in  the 
loveliest  disguise.  Out  of  her  large,  calm  eyes,  spoke  eternal 
youth.  On  a  light,  heaven-blue  ground  reposed  the  mild 
glory  of  the  dusky  stars.  Around  them  brow  and  nose  sloped 
gracefully.  A  lily  inclined  toward  the  rising  sun  was  hei 
face ;  and  from  the  slender  white  neck,  blue  veins  meandered 
in  tempting  curves  around  the  delicate  cheeks.  Her  voice 
was  like  a  far-away  echo,  and  the  small  brown  curly  head 
seemed  to  hover  over  the  light  form. 

The  music  banished  reserve  and  roused  every  inclination 
to  cheerful  sport.  Baskets  of  flowers  in  full  splendor  breathed 
forth  odors  on  the  table,  and  the  wine  crept  about  among  the 
dishes  and  the  flowers,  shook  his  golden  wings,  and  wove 
curtains  of  bright  tapestry  between  the  guests  and  the  world. 
Heinrich  now,  for  the  first  time,  understood  what  a  feast  was. 
A  thousand  gay  spirits  seemed  to  him  to  dance  about  the 
table,  and  in  still  sympathy  with  gay  men,  to  live  by  their 
joys  and  to  intoxicate  themselves  with  their  delights.  The 
joy  of  life  stood  like  a  sounding  tree  full  of  golden  fruits 
before  him.  Evil  did  not  show  itself,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
impossible  that  ever  human  inclination  should  have  turned 
from  this  tree  to  the  dangerous  fruit  of  knowledge,  to  the  tree 
of  conflict.  He  now  understood  wine  and  food.  He  found 
their  savor  surpassingly  delicious.  They  were  seasoned  for 
him  by  a  heavenly  oil,  and  sparkled  from  the  cup  the  glory 
of  earthly  life.  .  .  . 

It  was  deep  in  the  night  when  the  company  separated. 
The  first  and  only  feast  of  my  life,  said  Heinrich  to  himself 
when  he  was  alone. 

He  went  to  the  window.     The  choir  of  the  stars  stood  in 


GERMAN  LITERATURE.  339 

the  dark  sky,  and  in  the  east  a  white  sheen  announced  the 
coming  day.  With  full  transport  Heinrich  exclaimed  :  "  You, 
ye  everlasting  stars,  ye  silent  pilgrims,  you  I  invoke  as  wit- 
nesses of  my  sacred  oath !  For  Mathilde  I  will  live,  and 
eternal  truth  shall  bind  my  heart  to  hers.  For  me  too  the 
morn  of  an  everlasting  day  is  breaking.  The  night  is  past. 
I  kindle  myself,  a  never-dying  sacrifice  to  the  rising  sun ! 

Heinrich  was  heated,  and  it  was  late,  toward  morning, 
when  he  fell  asleep.  The  thoughts  of  his  soul  ran  together 
into  wondrous  dreams.  A  deep  blue  river  shimmered  from 
the  green  plain.  On  the  smooth  surface  swam  a  boat.  Ma- 
thilde sat  and  rowed.  She  was  decked  with  garlands,  sang  a 
simple  song,  and  looked  toward  him  with  a  sweet  sorrow. 
His  bosom  was  oppressed,  he  knew  not  why.  The  sky  was 
bright,  and  peaceful  the  flood.  Her  heavenly  countenance 
mirrored  itself  in  the  waves.  Suddenly  the  boat  began  to 
spin  round.  He  called  to  her,  alarmed.  She  smiled,  and 
laid  the  oar  in  the  boat,  which  continued  incessantly  to  whirl. 
An  overwhelming  anxiety  seized  him.  He  plunged  into  the 
stream,  but  could  make  no  progress,  the  water  bore  him.  She 
beckoned,  she  appeared  desirous  to  say  something.  Already 
the  boat  shipped  water,  but  she  smiled  with  an  ineffable  in- 
wardness, and  looked  cheerfully  into  the  whirlpool.  All  at 
once  it  drew  her  down.  A  gentle  breath  streaked  across  the 
waves,  which  flowed  on  as  calm  and  as  shining  as  before. 
The  terrific  agony  deprived  him  of  consciousness.  His  heart 
beat  no  more.  He  did  not  come  to  himself  until  he  found 
himself  on  dry  ground.  He  might  have  swam  far,  it  was  a 
strange  country.  He  knew  not  what  had  befallen  him  ;  his 
mind  was  gone ; — thoughtless  he  wandered  farther  into  the 
land.  He  felt  himself  dreadfully  exhausted.  A  little  foun- 
tain trickled  from  a  hill,  it  sounded  like  clear  bells.  With 
his  hand  he  scooped  a  few  drops,  and  wetted  his  parched  lips. 
Like  an  anxious  dream  the  terrible  event  lay  behind  him. 
He  walked  on  and  on  ;  flowers  and  trees  spoke  to  him.  He 
felt  himself  so  well,  so  at  home.  Then  he  heard  again  that 
simple  song.  He  pursued  the  sound.  Suddenly  some  one 
held  him  back  by  his  garment.  "  Dear  Heinrich  !  "  called  a 
well-known  voice.  He.  looked  round,  and  Mathilde  clasped 


340  LITERATURE  OF  AM,  NATIONS. 

him  in  her  arms.  ' ( Why  didst  thou  run  from  me,  dear  heart  ?  " 
said  she,  drawing  a  long  breath,  "  I  could  scarce  overtake  thee." 
Heinrich  wept.  He  pressed  her  to  his  bosom. — u  Where 
is  the  river?"  he  exclaimed  with  tears.  "  Seest  thou  not  its 
blue  waves  above  us?"  He  looked  up,  and  the  blue  river 
was  flowing  gently  above  their  heads.  "  Where  are  we,  dear 
Mathilde?"  "With  our  parents."  "Shall  we  remain  to- 
gether? "  "  Forever,"  she  replied,  while  she  pressed  her  lips 
to  his,  and  so  clasped  him  that  she  could  not  be  separated 
from  him  again.  She  whispered  a  strange  mysterious  word 
into  his  mouth,  which  vibrated  through  his  whole  being.  He 
wished  to  repeat  it,  when  his  grandfather  called  and  he  awoke. 
He  would  have  given  his  life  to  remember  that  word. 

FRAGMENTS. 

WHERE  no  gods  are,  ghosts  rule. 

The  greatest  of  miracles  is  a  virtuous  act. 

Where  children  are,  there  is  the  golden  age. 

All  faith  is  miraculous,  and  worketh  miracles. 

The  more  sinful  man  feels  himself  the  more  Christian  he  is. 

Prayer  is  to  religion  what  thinking  is  to  philosophy.  To 
pray  is  to  make  religion. 

The  history  of  Christ  is  as  surely  poetry  as  it  is  history. 
And,  in  general,  only  that  history  is  history  which  might 
also  be  fable. 

Sin  is  indeed  the  real  evil  in  the  world.  All  calamity  pro- 
ceeds from  that.  He  who  understands  sin,  understands  virtue 
and  Christianity,  himself  and  the  world. 

The  Bible  begins  gloriously  with  Paradise,  the  symbol  of 
youth,  and  ends  with  the  everlasting  kingdom,  with  the  holy 
city.  The  history  of  every  man  should  be  a  Bible. 

A  time  will  come,  and  that  soon,  when  all  men  will  be 
convinced,  that  there  can  be  no  king  without  a  republic,  and 
no  republic  without  a  king ;  that  both  are  as  inseparable  as 
body  and  soul.  The  true  king  will  be  a  republic,  the  true 
republic  a  king. 


GERMAN   LITERATURE.  34! 


LUDWIG  TIECK. 

AMONG  the  German  Romanticists,  Ludwig  Tieck  is  the 
most  prominent  figure.  He  was  born  at  Berlin  in  1773,  and 
studied  at  the  University  of  Halle.  He  early  became  an 
admirer  of  Shakespeare,  a  student  of  fairy  tales,  and  a  lover 
of  mediaeval  art.  After  making  adaptations  of  children's 
stories,  such  as  uBlue  Beard,"  he  achieved  success  in  his 
dreamy,  tragical  "Fair  Eckbert."  His  love  of  the  stage  led 
him  to  translate  some  plays  from  Spanish  and  English,  and 
to  produce  the  romantic  drama,  "Genoveva,"  and  the  more 
powerful  "  Emperor  Octaviau."  He  changed  his  residence 
several  times,  and  in  1805  went  to  Italy  for  the  sake  of  his 
health.  His  new  environment  had  the  effect  of  drawing  him 
from  mysticism  to  direct  criticism  of  life.  With  his  descrip- 
tions and  narrative  comment,  often  ironical,  was  ingeniously 
blended.  One  of  his  striking  characters  is  the  talented 
painter  Eulenbock,  who  is  driven  by  his  dissipated  habits  to 
become  a  forger  of  old  masters.  Shakespeare  is  the  hero  of 
UA  Poet's  L,ife,"  and  the  story  of  Camoens  is  rehearsed  in 
"A  Poet's  Death."  In  "  Vittoria  Accorambona  "  Tieck  makes 
a  notable  approach  to  the  later  French  style.  In  1819  Tieck 
settled  at  Dresden  and  took  charge  of  the  royal  theatre.  The 
German  translation  of  Shakespeare,  left  incomplete  by  Schle- 
gel,  was  assigned  to  Tieck,  but  the  part  which  bears  his  name 
was  actually  done  by  his  daughter  and  others.  He  did,  how- 
ever, translate  the  plays  of  other  Elizabethan  dramatists. 
At  the  age  of  seventy  he  was  called  to  Berlin  to  conduct 
dramatic  and  musical  representations,  but  soon  retired  from 
active  life.  He  died  in  1853. 

The  peculiar  genius  of  Tieck  is  said  to  have  combined  his 
father's  matter-of-fact  and  sarcasm  with  his  mother's  pious 
mysticism.  Though  he  produced  the  most  striking  work  of 
the  romantic  school,  he  was  self-distrustful,  and  was  drawn 
by  the  suggestions  of  others  to  spend  time  on  work  apart 
from  his  natural  bent. 


342  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  FESTIVAL. 

IN  that  part  of  the  city  where  the  trades  predominated, 
where  merchants,  mechanics  and  citizens  diffused  a  busy  life, 
there  was  a  street  which  led  from  the  Kolln  district  to  the 
castle,  that  a  considerable  time  before  saw  the  erection  of  the 
common  booths,  which  were  adorned  with  every  kind  of 
brilliant  knick-knack  as  the  proper  gift  for  the  Christmas 
feast.  Fourteen  days  before  the  feast  the  erection  of  these 
booths  began.  On  New- Year's  day  the  fair  was  closed  ;  and 
the  week  before  Christmas  Eve  was  properly  the  time  in 
which  the  city  pressed  itself  into  this  narrow  space  with  the 
liveliest  spirit  and  the  crowd  was  at  its  greatest.  Even  rain 
and  snow,  bad  and  disagreeable  weather,  with  the  most  biting 
cold,  did  not  suffice  to  banish  altogether  the  old  any  more 
than  the  young.  But  if  at  this  time  the  winter  days  were 
fresh  and  pleasant,  at  all  hours  the  rendezvous  was  gladdened 
by  people  of  all  ages,  who  desired  only  to  be  gay  and  to  enjoy 
things ;  for  nowhere  else  in  Germany  or  in  Italy  have  I  seen 
anything  so  bright  and  hearty  as  was  at  that  time  the  cele- 
bration of  the  Christinas  festival  in  Berlin. 

Most  beautiful  was  it  when  snow  had  shortly  before  fallen, 
with  moderate  frost,  and  clear  weather  had  for  a  time  pre- 
vailed. Then  through  the  ceaseless  steps  of  innumerable 
wanderers  the  common  plaster  of  the  streets  and  places  had 
been  transformed  into  a  marble  pavement.  About  the  mid- 
day hours  the  better  classes  came  out  and  walked  up  and 
down,  examining  and  buying,  followed  by  their  servants, 
who  were  burdened  with  the  gifts  that  had  been  bought ;  or 
they  came  together  in  groups,  as  though  in  a  hall,  to  con- 
verse with  each  other  and  interchange  their  news. 

But  the  place  was  at  its  brightest  in  the  evening  hours, 
when,  at  both  sides,  the  broad  street  was  illuminated  by  the 
many  thousands  of  lanterns  on  the  booths  that  spread  around 
a  light  as  clear  as  daylight,  which  only  here  and  there,  owing 
to  the  dense  crowd  of  people,  seemed  darkened,  and  played 
in  deep  shadows.  All  classes  then  mingled  gayly,  and  with 
with  loud  talk, — in  a  word,  surged  through  each  other. 


GERMAN  LITERATURE.  343 

Here  an  aged  burgher  carried  his  child  on  his  arm,  and 
showed  and  explained  all  the  wonders  to  his  loud-jubilating 
son.  A  mother  lifted  up  her  little  daughter  that  the  child 
might  be  near  enough  to  see  the  waxen  hands  and  faces 
of  the  brilliant  dolls,  which,  in  their  red  and  white,  came  so 
closely  after  nature.  A  courtier  drew  along  his  gayly-dressed 
lady ;  the  man  of  business  was  compelled  to  admit  himself 
deafened  by  the  din  and  confusion,  and  to  leave  his  accounts 
and  to  join  in  it ;  yea,  even  the  beggars,  old  and  young,  openly 
and  publicly  rejoiced  in  the  masquerade  accessible  to  every- 
body. And  they  saw  without  envy  the  treasures  of  the  sea- 
son, and  sympathized  with  the  joy  and  pleasure  of  the  chil- 
dren, sharing  the  lively  hope  that  for  each  little  one  some- 
thing would  be  borne  from  this  great  treasure-chamber  into 
the  little  play-room.  So  the  thousands  moved  about,  joking 
over  their  plans  to  buy,  counting  up  their  money,  laughing 
and  crying  after  the  sweet-scented  manifold-moulded  confec- 
tions, in  some  of  which  were  fruits  in  graceful  imitations, 
figures  of  all  kinds,  beasts  and  men,  all  shining  in  clear 
colors,  smiling  with  lustre.  Here,  truly,  is  a  bewildering 
exhibition  of  fruits, — apricots,  peaches,  cherries,  pears,  and 
apples, — all  most  artistically  formed  out  of  wax.  There,  in  a 
great  booth,  are  thousands  of  playthings  formed  in  all  shapes 
out  of  wood, — men  and  women,  laborers  and  priests,  kings 
and  beggars,  sledges  and  coaches,  maidens,  ladies,  nuns, 
horses  with  bells  and  shining  harness,  whole  suits  of  furni- 
ture, or  hunters  with  hart  and  hounds ;  whatever  thought 
could  suggest  for  play  is  here  represented  ;  and  the  children, 
servants  and  parents  were  all  excited  about  choosing  and 
buying.  Yonder  glances  a  stall  overflowing  with  bright  tin 
(for  then  it  was  still  customary  to  make  plates  and  dishes  of 
this  metal),  but  next  to  it,  polished  and  shining  implements 
glanced  and  shone  in  red  and  green,  and  gold  and  blue,  an 
innumerable  multitude  regularly  ranged,  and  representing 
soldiers,  Englishmen,  Prussians  and  Croats,  Pandours  and 
Turks,  prettily-clothed  Pachas  on  richly-caparisoned  chargers, 
also  harnessed  knights,  and  peasants,  and  forests  in  spring 
glory,  huntsmen,  stags,  and  bears,  and  hounds  in  the  wild. 
If  one  was  not  already  absolutely  deafened  and  bewildered 


344  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

with  all  this  confusion  of  playthings,  the  lights,  and  the 
manifold  surging  multitude,  augmented  by  the  loud  shrill 
cries  of  the  itinerant  venders  of  wares,  who  would  not  attach 
themselves  to  one  particular  spot,  then  one  might  have 
squeezed  through  the  thickest  press,  with  its  screaming, 
shouting,  laughing  and  whistling,  into  a  part  a  little  more 
open,  where  the  pressure  was  of  a  less  oppressive  kind,  if  still 
the  gold  could  easily  be  spent.  Here  are  young  students, 
who,  incapable  of  fatigue,  ceaselessly  swing  about  a  big  poly- 
gon of  pasteboard,  which  is  fastened  to  a  staff  with  horse- 
hair, a  strange  loud  humming  being  produced,  and  at  which 
the  rogues  loudly  shout  and  cry.  Now  comes  slowly  forward 
a  great  coach  with  many  servants.  It  contains  the  young 
princes  and  princesses  of  the  royal  house,  who  also  will  take 
part  in  the  children's  joy  of  the  people.  Now  the  citizens 
rejoice  with  a  double  pleasure  at  being  so  near  to  their  sov- 
ereigns ;  the  children  are  overflowing,  and  all  draw,  with  new 
eagerness,  round  the  now  motionless  carriage. 

J.  H.  D.  ZSCHOKKE. 

ZSCHOKKE,  though  born  in  Prussia  in  1771,  spent  most  of 
his  mature  life  in  Switzerland,  and  devoted  his  labors  to  the 
interests  of  his  adopted  country.  His  earliest  literary  attempts 
were  extravagant  plays,  but  his  later  works  were  chiefly  his- 
torical and  philosophical,  in  which  the  modern  views  of 
politics  and  religion  were  supported.  Yet  his  reputation  rests 
rather  on  his  lighter  writings,  "  Pictures  of  the  Swiss,"  and 
his  romantic  tales,  "The  Creole,"  "Meister  Jordan." 

THE  NEW  YEAR'S  GIFT. 

THE  following  extract  is  taken  from  "  The  Journal  of  a  Poor  Vicar 
in  Wiltshire."  The  story,  though  told  in  the  form  of  a  diary,  has  a 
close  resemblance  to  Goldsmith's  ' '  Vicar  of  Wakefield.' '  The  transla- 
tion is  by  the  Rev.  W.  H.  Furness,  D.D. 

New  Yearns  Day,  1765,  A.M. — A  wonderful  and  sad  affair 
opens  the  year.  Here  follows  its  history. 

Early,  about  six  o'clock,  as  I  lay  in  bed  thinking  over  my 
sermon,  I  heard  a  knocking  at  the  front  door.  Polly  was  up 


GERMAN  LITERATURE.  345 

and  in  the  kitchen.  She  ran  to  open  the  door  and  see  who 
was  there.  Such  early  visits  are  not  usual  with  us.  A 
stranger  presented  himself  with  a  large  box,  which  he  handed 

to  Polly  with  these  words  :  uMr.  "  (Polly  lost  the  name) 

"  sends  this  box  to  the  Rev.  Vicar,  and  requests  him  to  be 
very  careful  of  the  contents." 

Polly  took  the  box  with  joyful  surprise.  The  man  dis- 
appeared. Polly  tapped  lightly  at  my  chamber  door  to  see 
whether  I  was  awake.  I  answered,  and  she  came  in,  and 
wishing  me  "  A  happy  new  year,"  as  well  as  "Good  morning," 
added  laughing,  "  You  will  see  now,  dear  father,  whether 
Polly's  dreams  are  not  prophetic.  The  promised  bishop's 
mitre  is  come  ! ' '  And  then  she  told  me  how  a  New  Year's 
present  had  been  given  her  forme.  It  vexed  me,  that  she 
had  not  asked  more  particularly  for  the  name  of  my  unknown 
patron  or  benefactor. 

While  she  went  out  to  light  a  lamp  and  call  Jenny,  I 
dressed  myself.  I  cannot  deny  that  I  was  burning  with 
curiosity.  For  hitherto  the  New  Year's  presents  for  the 

Vicar  of  C e  had  been  as  insignificant  as  they  were  rare. 

I  suspected  that  my  patron,  the  farmer,  whose  good-will  I 
appeared  to  have  won,  had  meant  to  surprise  me  with  a  box 
of  cake,  and  I  admired  his  modesty  in  sending  me  the  present 
before  it  was  light. 

When  I  entered  the  parlor,  Polly  and  Jenny  were  standing 
at  the  table  on  which  lay  the  box  directed  to  me  carefully 
sealed,  and  of  an  unusual  size.  I  had  never  seen  exactly  such 
a  box  before.  I  lifted  it,  and  found  it  pretty  heavy.  In  the 
top  were  two  smoothly  cut  round  holes. 

With  Jenny's  help  I  opened  the  box  very  cautiously,  as  I 
had  been  directed  to  handle  the  contents  carefully.  A  fine 
white  cloth  was  removed,  and  lo  ! — but  no,  our  astonishment 
is  indescribable.  We  all  exclaimed  with  one  voice,  ( ( Good 
God!" 

There  lay  a  little  child  asleep,  some  six  or  eight  weeks 
old,  dressed  in  the  finest  linen,  with  rose-colored  ribands.  Its 
little  head  rested  upon  a  soft  blue  silk  cushion,  and  it  was 
wrapt  up  in  a  blanket.  The  covering,  as  well  as  the  little 
cap,  was  trimmed  with  the  costliest  Brabant  lace. 


346  UTERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

We  stood  some  moments  gazing  at  it  with  silent  wonder. 
At  last  Polly  broke  out  into  a  comical  laugh  and  cried : 
"What  shall  we  do  with  it?  This  is  no  bishop's  mitre.* * 
Jenny  timidly  touched  the  cheek  of  the  sleeping  babe  with 
the  tip  of  her  finger,  and  in  a  tone  full  of  pity,  said :  u  Poor, 
dear  little  creature !  thou  hast  no  mother,  or  might  as  well 
have  no  mother  !  Great  God  !  to  cast  off  such  a  lovely,  help- 
less being  !  Only  see,  father,  only  see,  Polly,  how  peacefully 
and  trustfully  it  sleeps,  unconscious  of  its  fate,  as  if  it  knew 
that  it  is  lying  in  God's  hand.  Sleep  on,  thou  poor,  forsaken 
one !  Thy  parents  are  perhaps  too  high  in  rank  to  care  for 
thee,  and  too  happy  to  permit  thee  to  disturb  their  happiness. 
Sleep  on,  we  will  not  cast  thee  out.  They  have  brought  thee 
to  the  right  place.  I  will  be  thy  mother." 

As  Jenny  was  speaking,  two  large  tears  fell  from  her  eyes. 
I  caught  the  pious,  gentle-hearted  creature  to  my  breast,  and 
said :  u  Be  a  mother  to  this  little  one  !  The  step-children  of 
fortune  come  to  her  step- children.  God  tries  our  faith — 110^ 
He  does  not  try  it,  He  knows  it.  Therefore  is  this  forsaken 
little  creature  brought  to  us.  We  do  not  indeed  know  how 
we  shall  subsist  from  one  day  to  another,  but  He  knows,  who 
has  appointed  us  to  be  parents  to  this  orphan." 

Thus  the  matter  was  soon  settled.  The  child  continued 
to  sleep  sweetly  on.  In  the  meanwhile,  we  exhausted  our- 
selves in  conjectures  about  its  parents,  who  were  undoubtedly 
known  to  us,  as  the  box  was  directed  to  me.  Polly,  alas ! 
could  tell  us  nothing  more  of  the  person  who  brought  it  than 
she  already  told.  Now,  while  the  little  thing  sleeps,  and  I 
run  over  my  New  Year's  sermon  upon  "the  Power  of  the 
Eternal  Providence,"  my  daughters  are  holding  a  council 
about  the  nursing  of  the  poor  stranger.  Polly  exhibits  all  the 
delight  of  a  child.  Jenny  appears  to  be  much  moved.  With 
me,  it  is  as  if  I  entered  upon  the  New  Year  in  the  midst  of 
miracles,  and — it  may  be  superstition,  or  it  may  be  not — as 
if  this  little  child  were  sent  to  be  out;  guardian  angel  in  our 
need.  I  cannot  express  the  feelings  of  peace,  the  still  happi- 
ness which  I  have. 

Same  day.  Eve. — I  came  home  greatly  exhausted  and 
weary  with  the  sacred  labors  of  the  day.  I  had  a  long  and 


GERMAN  LITERATURE.  347 

rugged  walk.  But  I  was  inspirited  by  a  happy  return  home, 
by  the  cheerfulness  of  ray  daughters,  by  our  pleasant  little 
parlor.  The  table  was  ready  laid  for  me,  and  on  it  stood  a 
flask  of  wine,  a  New  Year's  present  from  an  unknown  benev- 
olent hand. 

The  looks  of  the  lovely  little  child  in  Jenny's  arms  re- 
freshed me  above  all  things.  Polly  showed  me  the  beautiful 
little  bed  of  our  nursling,  the  dozen  fine  napkins,  the  dear 
little  caps  and  night-clothes,  which  were  in  the  box,  and  then 
a  sealed  packet  of  money  directed  to  me,  which  they  found 
at  the  feet  of  the  child  when  it  awoke,  and  they  took  it  out. 

Anxious  to  learn  something  of  the  parentage  of  our  little 
unknown  inmate,  I  opened  the  packet.  It  contained  a  roll  of 
twenty  guineas  and  a  letter,  as  follows : 

"  Rely  ing  with  entire  confidence  upon  the  piety  and  hu- 
manity of  your  Reverence,  the  unhappy  parents  of  this  dear 
child  commend  it  to  your  care.  Do  not  forsake  it.  We  will 
testify  our  gratitude  when  we  are  at  liberty  to  make  ourselves 
known  to  you.  Although  at  a  distance,  we  shall  keep  a  care- 
ful watch,  and  know  everything  that  you  do.  The  dear  boy 
is  named  Alfred.  He  has  been  baptized.  His  board  for  the 
first  quarter  accompanies  this.  The  same  sum  will  be  punc- 
tually remitted  to  you  every  three  months.  Take  the  child. 
We  commend  him  to  the  tenderness  of  your  daughter  Jenny." 

When  I  had  read  the  letter,  Polly  leaped  with  joy,  and 
cried:  "There's  the  bishop's  mitre!"  Bountiful  Heaven! 
how  rich  had  we  suddenly  become !  We  read  the  letter  a 
dozen  times.  We  did  not  trust  our  eyes  to  look  at  the  gold 
upon  the  table.  What  a  New  Year's  present !  From  my 
heaviest  cares  for  the  future  was  I  thns  suddenly  relieved. 
But  in  what  a  strange  and  mysterious  way !  In  vain  did  I 
think  over  all  the  people  I  knew,  in  order  to  discover  who  it 
might  be  who  had  been  forced  by  birth  or  rank  to  conceal  the 
existence  of  their  child,  or  who  were  able  to  make  such  a 
liberal  compensation  for  a  simple  service  of  Christian  charity. 
I  tasked  my  recollection,  but  I  could  think  of  no  one.  And 
yet  it  was  evident  that  these  parents  were  well  acquainted 
with  me  and  mine. 

Wonderful  are  the  ways  of  Providence ! 


348  UTKRATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 


J.  AND  W.  GRIMM. 

INVESTIGATION  of  the  early  language,  poetry  and  laws  of 
Germany  led  the  brothers  Grirnm  not  only  to  the  compilation 
of  the  scientific  Grammar  and  ponderous  Dictionary  which 
astonished  the  learned  world,  but  also  to  the  collection  and 
rehearsing  of  "Household  Tales"  which  have  since  delighted 
the  children  of  many  lands.  In  spite  of  Continental  wars  and 
commotions,  they  spent  most  of  their  lives  as  librarians, 
usually  in  the  same  place.  The  elder,  Jacob  L.  C.  (1785- 
1863),  enjoyed  robust  health  and  lived  for  some  years  in  Paris. 
The  younger,  Wilhelm  C.  (1786-1859),  was  weakened  by  ill- 
ness in  youth,  and  never  recovered  his  full  strength.  When 
he  married,  his  bachelor  brother  shared  his  house.  To  Wil- 
helm, chiefly,  is  due  the  writing  of  their  u  Household  Tales, " 
which  first  appeared  in  1812,  and  was  frequently  enlarged. 

THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY. 

IN  times  past  there  lived  a  king  and  queen,  who  said  to 
each  other  every  day  of  their  lives,  "  Would  that  we  had  a 
child  ! ' '  and  yet  they  had  none.  But  it  happened  once  that 
when  the  queen  was  bathing,  there  came  a  frog  out  of  the 
water,  and  he  squatted  on  the  ground,  and  said  to  her, — 

"Thy  wish  shall  be  fufilled;  before  a  year  has  gone  by, 
thou  shalt  bring  a  daughter  into  the  world.' * 

And  as  the  frog  foretold,  so  it  happened ;  and  the  queen 
bore  a  daughter  so  beautiful  that  the  king  could  not  contain 
himself  for  joy,  and  he  ordained  a  great  feast.  Not  only  did 
he  bid  to  it  his  relations,  friends,  and  acquaintances,  but  also 
the  wise  women,  that  they  might  be  kind  and  favorable  to 
the  child.  There  were  thirteen  of  them  in  his  kingdom,  but, 
as  he  had  only  provided  twelve  golden  plates  for  them  to  eat 
from,  one  of  them  had  to  be  left  out.  However,  the  feast  was 
celebrated  with  all  splendor ;  and  as  it  drew  to  an  end,  the 
wise  women  stood  forward  to  present  to  the  child  their  won- 
derful gifts  :  one  bestowed  virtue,  one  beauty,  a  third  riches, 
and  so  on,  whatever  there  is  in  the  world  to  wish  for.  And 


GERMAN  LITERATURE.  349 

when  eleven  of  them  had  said  their  say,  in  came  the  unin- 
vited thirteenth,  burning  to  revenge  herself,  and,  without 
greeting  or  showing  respect,  she  cried  with  a  loud  voice, — 
"In  the  fifteenth  year  of  her  age  the  princess  shall  prick 
herself  with  a  spindle  and  shall  fall  down  dead." 

Without  speaking  one  more  word  she  turned  away  and 
left  the  hall.  Every  one  was  terrified  at  her  saying,  when 
the  twelfth  came  forward,  for  she  had  not  yet  bestowed  her 
gift,  and  though  she  could  not  do  away  with  the  evil  prophecy, 
yet  she  could  soften  it;  so  she  said, — "  The  princess  shall  not 
die,  but  fall  into  a  deep  sleep  for  a  hundred  years." 

Now,  the  king,  being  desirous  of  saving  his  child  even 
from  this  misfortune,  gave  commandment  that  all  the  spindles 
in  his  kingdom  should  be  burnt  up. 

The  maiden  grew  up,  adorned  with  all  the  gifts  of  the 
wise  women  ;  and  she  was  so  lovely,  modest,  sweet,  and  kind 
and  clever,  that  no  one  who  saw  could  help  loving  her. 

It  happened  one  day,  she  being  already  fifteen  years  old, 
that  the  king  and  queen  rode  abroad,  and  the  maiden 
was  left  behind  alone  in  the  castle.  She  wandered  about 
into  all  the  nooks  and  corners,  and  into  all  the  chambers  and 
parlors,  as  the  fancy  took  her,  till  at  last  she  came  to  an  old 
tower.  She  climbed  the  narrow  winding  stair  which  led  to  a 
little  door,  with  a  rusty  key  sticking  out  of  the  lock ;  she 
turned  the  key,  and  the  door  opened,  and  there  in  the  little 
room  sat  an  old  woman  with  a  spindle,  diligently  spinning 
her  flax. 

"  Good-day,  mother, "  said  the  princess.  u  What  are  you 
doing  ?" 

"  I  am  spinning,"  answered  the  old  woman,  nodding  her 
head. 

"What  thing  is  that  that  twirls  round  so  briskly?" 
asked  the  maiden,  and,  taking  the  spindle  into  her  hand,  she 
began  to  spin;  but  no  sooner  had  she  touched  it  than  the 
evil  prophecy  was  fulfilled,  and  she  pricked  her  finger  with 
it.  In  that  very  moment  she  fell  back  on  the  bed  that  stood 
there,  and  lay  in  a  deep  sleep.  And  this  sleep  fell  upon  the 
whole  castle ;  the  king  and  queen,  who  had  returned  and 
were  in  the  great  hall,  fell  fast  asleep,  and  with  them  the 


350  UTERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

vhole  court.  The  horses  in  their  stalls,  the  dogs  in  the  yard, 
the  pigeons  on  the  roof,  the  flies  on  the  wall,  the  very  fire 
that  nickered  on  the  hearth,  became  still,  and  slept  like  the 
rest ;  and  the  meat  on  the  spit  ceased  roasting,  and  the  cook, 
who  was  going  to  pnll  the  scullion's  hair  for  some  mistake 
he  had  made,  let  him  go,  and  went  to  sleep.  And  the  wind 
ceased,  and  not  a  leaf  fell  from  the  trees  about  the  castle. 

Then  round  about  that  place  there  grew  a  hedge  of  thorns 
thicker  every  year,  until  at  last  the  whole  castle  was  hidden 
from  view,  and  nothing  of  it  could  be  seen  but  the  vane  on 
the  roof.  And  a  rumor  went  abroad  in  all  that  country  of  the 
beautiful  sleeping  Rosamond,  for  so  was  the  princess  called ; 
and  from  time  to  time  many  kings7  sons  came  and  tried  to 
force  their  way  through  the  hedge  ;  but  it  was  impossible  for 
them  to  do  so,  for  the  thorns  held  them  fast  together  like 
strong  hands,  and  the  young  men  were  caught  by  them,  and, 
not  being  able  to  get  free,  there  died  a  lamentable  death. 

Many  a  long  year  after  there  came  a  king's  son  into  that 
country,  and  heard  an  old  man  tell  how  there  should  be  a 
castle  standing  behind  the  hedge  of  thorns,  and  that  there  a 
beautiful  enchanted  princess  named  Rosamond  had  slept  for 
a  hundred  years,  and  with  her  the  king  and  queen  and  the 
whole  court.  The  old  man  had  been  told  by  his  grandfather 
that  many  kings'  sons  had  sought  to  pass  the  thorn-hedge, 
but  had  been  caught  and  pierced  by  the  thorns  and  had  died 
a  miserable  death.  Then  said  the  young  man,  "Neverthe- 
less, I  do  not  fear  to  try ;  I  shall  win  through  and  see  the 
lovely  Rosamond."  The  good  old  man  tried  to  dissuade  him, 
but  he  would  not  listen  to  his  words. 

For  now  the  hundred  years  were  at  an  end,  and  the  day 
had  come  when  Rosamond  should  be  awakened.  When  the 
prince  drew  near  the  hedge  of  thorns,  it  was  changed  to  a 
hedge  of  beautiful  large  flowers,  which  parted  and  bent  aside 
to  let  him  pass,  and  then  closed  behind  him  in  a  thick  hedge. 
When  he  reached  the  castle  yard,  he  saw  the  horses  and 
brindled  hunting  dogs  lying  asleep,  and  on  the  roof  the 
pigeons  were  sitting  with  their  heads  under  their  wings. 
And  when  he  came  in-doors,  the  flies  on  the  wall  were  asleep, 
the  cook  in  the  kitchen  had  her  hand  uplifted  to  strike  the 


GERMAN  UTERATURK.  35 1 

scullion,  and  the  kitchen-maid  had  the  black  fowl  on  her  lap 
ready  to  pluck.  Then  he  mounted  higher,  and  saw  in  the 
hall  the  whole  court  lying  asleep,  and  above  them,  on  their 
thrones,  slept  the  king  and  the  queen.  And  still  he  went 
farther,  and  all  was  so  quiet  that  he  could  hear  his  own 
breathing ;  and  at  last  he  came  to  the  tower,  and  went  up  the 
winding  stair,  and  opened  the  door  of  the  little  room  where 
Rosamond  lay.  And  when  he  saw  her  looking  so  lovely  in 
her  sleep,  he  could  not  turn  away  his  eyes ;  and  presently  he 
stooped  and  kissed  her,  and  she  awakened,  and  opened  her 
eyes,  and  looked  very  kindly  on  him.  And  she  rose,  and 
they  went  forth  together,  and  the  king  and  the  queen  and  the 
whole  court  waked  up,  and  gazed  on  each  other  with  great 
eyes  of  wonderment.  And  the  horses  in  the  yard  got  up  and 
shook  themselves,  the  hounds  sprang  tip  and  wagged  their 
tails,  the  pigeons  on  the  roof  drew  their  heads  from  under 
their  wings,  looked  round,  and  flew  into  the  field,  the  flies  on 
the  wall  crept  on  a  little  farther,  the  joint  on  the  spit  began 
to  roast,  the  cook  gave  the  scullion  such  a  box  on  the  ear  that 
he  roared  out,  and  the  maid  went  on  plucking  the  fowl. 

Then  the  wedding  of  the  prince  and  Rosamond  was  held 
with  all  splendor,  and  they  lived  very  happily  together  until 
their  lives'  end. 

GERMAN  FOLK-TALES. 

IN  these  tales  ...  all  nature  is  alive  ;  sun,  moon,  and  stars 
are  accessible,  bestow  gifts,  or  may,  perhaps,  even  be  woven 
in  garments ;  in  the  mountains,  dwarfs  are  digging  for  pre- 
cious metals  ;  in  the  sea  there  sleep  the  water  sprites ;  birds, 
plants  and  stones  talk  and  express  their  sympathy ;  even 
blood  calls  and  speaks  out.  This  innocent  familiarity  of  the 
greatest  and  the  smallest  has  an  inexpressible  sweetness, 
and  we,  for  our  part,  would  rather  listen  to  the  conversation 
between  the  stars  and  a  poor  child  lost  in  the  forest  than  to 
the  music  of  the  spheres.  All  that  is  beautiful,  is  golden  and 
strewn  with  pearls  ;  even  golden  people  are  to  be  found  ;  the 
evil,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a  dark  power,  a  monstrous,  man- 
eating  giant.  And  yet  it  is  overcome,  for  a  good  woman 
comes  forward  who  knows  how  to  avert  the  danger — and 
thus  this  epic  always  ends  by  opening  up  an  endless  joy. 


BARON  DE  IvA  MOTTE 
FOUQUE. 


OF  French  descent,  yet  a  thorough  German  in  spirit  was 
Baron  Friedrich  de  la  Motte  Fouque*,  the  author  of  "Undine." 
His  grandfather,  originally  a  French  Huguenot  ensign,  rose 
to  be  one  of  the  favorite  generals  of  Frederick  the  Great. 
Fouque*,  born  in  1777,  became  a  cuirassier  and  fought  in 
the  disastrous  Rhine  campaign.  He  was  wounded  at  Culm. 
Then  he  retired  to  the  country  and  devoted  himself  to  study 
and  literary  pursuits  until  the  campaign  of  1813  called  forth 
all  Prussia.  He  served  as  captain,  and  at  the  close  of  the 
campaign  for  his  bravery  he  was  made  a  major.  Like  Korner 
he  devoted  both  "the  lyre  and  the  sword"  to  his  country. 
His  later  life  was  spent  alternately  in  Paris  and  on  his  estate 
at  Neunhausen,  and  after  1830  at  Halle.  He  died  in  1843. 

Fouque*  first  entered  the  literary  world  as  a  dramatist  in 
1801,  under  the  pseudonym  "  Pellegrin."  But  he  was  attracted 
by  the  early  Scandinavian  legends,  and  in  1808  he  issued 
" Sigurd"  with  his  real  name  attached.  Then  came  "The 
Magic  Ring,"  "Theodulf  the  Icelander"  and  uAslauga's 
Knight."  He  mingled  with  his  romantic  narratives  praises  of 
feudalism  and  antique  life.  He  also  strained  after  fantastic 
conceits,  as  in  "Sintram  and  His  Companions"  and  "The 
Two  Captains."  But  his  masterpiece  is  the  charmingly-fan- 
ciful "Undine,"  the  gentle  water-nymph  who  could  have  won 
an  immortal  soul  had  she  been  able  to  win  the  love  of  a 
human  being.  She  lives  with  two  old  fisher-folk  as  a  beauti- 
ful maiden,  and  a  knight  conies  to  woo  her.  But  a  rival  poisons 
Huldbrand's  mind,  he  distrusts  Undine,  and  the  tender-hearted 
water-spirit  vanishes  again  in  the  waves  of  the  Danube. 
352 


GERMAN   LITERATURE.  353 


UNDINE  AND  HULDBRAND. 

THE  Knight  Huldbrand  had  taken  refuge  from  a  storm  in  a  cottage 
where  dwelt  an  old  couple  with  their  adopted  child  Undine,  who  was 
really  a  water-sprite. 

The  old  people  saw  with  pleasure  the  familiarity  of  Un- 
dine and  Huldbrand  ;  they  looked  upon  them  as  betrothed,  or 
even  as  married,  and  living  with  them  in  their  old  age  on  their 
island,  now  torn  off  from  the  mainland.  The  loneliness  of 
his  situation  strongly  impressed  also  the  young  Huldbrand 
with  the  feeling  that  he  was  already  Undine* s  bridegroom.  It 
seemed  to  him  as  if,  beyond  those  encompassing  floods,  there 
were  no  other  world  in  existence,  or  at  any  rate  as  if  he  could 
never  cross  them,  and  again  associate  with  the  world  of  other 
men  ;  and  when  at  times  his  grazing  steed  raised  his  head  and 
neighed  to  him,  seemingly  inquiring  after  his  knightly 
achievements  and  reminding  him  of  them,  or  when  his  coat- 
of-arms  sternly  shone  upon  him  from  the  embroidery  of  his 
saddle  and  the  caparisons  of  his  horse,  or  when  his  sword  hap- 
pened to  fall  from  the  nail  on  which  it  was  hanging  in  the 
cottage,  and  flashed  on  his  eye  as  it  slipped  from  the  scabbard 
in  its  fall,  he  quieted  the  doubts  of  his  mind  by  saying  to 
himself,  "  Undine  cannot  be  a  fisherman's  daughter.  She  is, 
in  all  probability,  a  native  of  some  remote  region,  and  a  mem- 
ber of  some  illustrious  family." 

There  was  one  thing,  indeed,  to  which  he  had  a  strong 
aversion :  this  was  to  hear  the  old  dame  reproving  Undine. 
The  wild  girl,  it  is  true,  commonly  laughed  at  the  reproof, 
making  no  attempt  to  conceal  the  extravagance  of  her  mirth  ; 
but  it  appeared  to  him  like  touching  his  own  honor  ;  and  still 
he  found  it  impossible  to  blame  the  aged  wife  of  the  fisher- 
man, since  Undine  always  deserved  .at  least  ten  times  as  many 
reproofs  as  she  received  ;  so  he  continued  to  feel  in  his  heart 
an  affectionate  tenderness  for  the  ancient  mistress  of  the 
house,  and  his  whole  life  flowed  on  in  the  calm  stream  of  con- 
tentment. 

There  came,  however,  an  interruption  at  last.     The  fish- 
erman and  the  knight  had  been  accustomed  at  dinner,  and 
ix— 23 


354  WTERATURE  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

also  in  the  evening  when  the  wind  roared  without,  as  it 
rarely  failed  to  do  towards  night,  to  enjoy  together  a  flask  of 
wine.  But  now  their  whole  stock,  which  the  fisherman  had 
from  time  to  time  brought  with  him  from  the  city,  was  at  last 
exhausted,  and  they  were  both  quite  out  of  humor  at  the  cir- 
cumstance. That  day  Undine  laughed  at  them  excessively, 
but  they  were  not  disposed  to  join  in  her  jests  with  the  same 
gaiety  as  usual.  Toward  evening  she  went  out  of  the  cottage, 
to  escape,  as  she  said,  the  sight  of  two  such  long  and  tiresome 
faces. 

While  it  was  yet  twilight,  some  appearances  of  a  tempest 
seemed  to  be  again  mustering  in  the  sky,  and  the  waves 
already  heaved  and  roared  around  them  :  the  knight  and  the 
fisherman  sprang  to  the  door  in  terror,  to  bring  home  the 
maiden,  remembering  the  anguish  of  that  night  when  Huld- 
brand  had  first  entered  the  cottage.  But  Undine  met  them  at 
the  same  moment,  clapping  her  little  hands  in  high  glee. 

"  What  will  you  give  me,"  she  cried,  "to  provide  you  with 
wine?  or  rather,  you  need  not  give  me  anything,"  she  con- 
tinued; "for  I  am  already  satisfied,  if  you  look  more  cheer- 
ful, and  are  in  better  spirits,  than  throughout  this  last  most 
wearisome  day.  Only  come  with  me ;  the  forest  stream  has 
driven  ashore  a  cask;  and  I  will  be  condemned  to  sleep 
through  a  whole  week,  if  it  is  not  a  wine-cask. " 

The  men  followed  her,  and  actually  found,  in  a  bushy 
cove  of  the  shore,  a  cask,  which  inspired  them  with  as  much 
joy  as  if  they  were  sure  it  contained  the  generous  old  wine  for 
which  they  were  thirsting.  They  first  of  all,  and  with  as 
much  expedition  as  possible,  rolled  it  toward  the  cottage  ;  for 
heavy  clouds  were  again  rising  in  the  west,  and  they  could 
discern  the  waves  of  the  lake  in  the  fading  light  lifting  their 
white  foaming  heads,  as  if  looking  out  for  the  rain,  which 
threatened  every  instant  to  pour  upon  them.  Undine  helped 
the  men  as  much  as  she  was  able  ;  and  as  the  shower,  with  a 
roar  of  wind,  came  suddenly  sweeping  on  in  rapid  pursuit, 
she  raised  her  finger  with  a  merry  menace  toward  the  dark 
mass  of  clouds,  and  cried : 

"  You  cloud,  you  cloud,  have  a  care  !  beware  how  you  wet 
us ;  we  are  some  way  from  shelter  yet. ' ' 


GERMAN  UTERATURE.  355 

The  old  man  reproved  her  for  this  sally,  as  a  sinful  pre- 
sumption ;  but  she  laughed  to  herself  softly,  and  no  mischief 
came  from  her  wild  behavior.  Nay  more,  what  was  beyond 
their  expectation,  they  reached  their  comfortable  hearth  un. 
wet,  with  their  prize  secured;  but  the  cask  had  hardly  been 
broached,  and  proved  to  contain  wine  of  a  remarkably  fine 
flavor,  when  the  rain  first  poured  down  unrestrained  from  the 
black  cloud,  the  tempest  raved  through  the  tops  of  the  trees, 
and  swept  far  over  the  billows  of  the  deep. 

Having  immediately  filled  several  bottles  from  the  cask, 
which  promised  them  a  supply  for  a  long  time,  they  drew 
round  the  glowing  hearth;  and,  comfortably  secured  from 
the  tempest,  they  sat  tasting  the  flavor  of  their  wine  and 
bandying  jests. 

But  the  old  fisherman  suddenly  became  extremely  grave, 
and  said :  "Ah,  great  God !  here  we  sit,  rejoicing  over  this 
rich  gift,  while  he  to  whom  it  first  belonged,  and  from  whom 
it  was  wrested  by  the  fury  of  the  stream,  must  there  also,  it 
is  more  than  probable,  have  lost  his  life." 

"No  such  thing,"  said  Undine,  smiling,  as  she  filled  the 
knight's  cup  to  the  brim. 

But  he  exclaimed :  "  By  my  unsullied  honor,  old  father, 
if  I  knew  where  to  find  and  rescue  him,  no  fear  of  exposure 
to  the  night,  nor  any  peril,  should  deter  me  from  making  the 
attempt.  At  least,  I  can  promise  you  that  if  I  again  reach  an 
inhabited  country,  I  will  find  out  the  owner  of  this  wine  or  his 
heirs,  and  make  double  and  triple  reimbursement." 

The  old  man  was  gratified  with  this  assurance ;  he  gave 
the  knight  a  nod  of  approbation,  and  now  drained  his  cup 
with  an  easier  conscience  and  more  relish. 

Undine,  however,  said  to  Huldbrand :  uAs  to  the  repay- 
ment and  your  gold,  you  may  do  whatever  you  like.  But 
what  you  said  about  your  venturing  out,  and  searching,  and 
exposing  yourself  to  danger,  appears  to  me  far  from  wise.  I 
should  cry  my  very  eyes  out,  should  you  perish  in  such  a 
wild  attempt ;  and  is  it  not  true  that  you  would  prefer  stay- 
ing here  with  me  and  the  good  wine?" 

"Most  assuredly,"  answered  Huldbrand,  smiling. 

"Then,  you  see,"  replied  Undine,  "you  spoke  unwisely. 


356  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

For  charity  begins  at  home ;  and  why  need  we  trouble  our- 
selves about  our  neighbors  ?  * ' 

The  mistress  of  the  house  turned  away  from  her,  sighing 
and  shaking  her  head  ;  while  the  fisherman  forgot  his  wonted 
indulgence  toward  the  graceful  maiden,  and  thus  rebuked 
her: 

"That  sounds  exactly  as  if  you  had  been  brought  up  by 
heathens  and  Turks  ;"  and  he  finished  his  reproof  by  adding, 
"May  God  forgive  both  me  and  you — unfeeling  child  !" 

"Well,  say  what  you  will,  that  is  what  /  think  and  feel." 
replied  Undine,  u  whoever  brought  me  up  ;  and  all  your  talk- 
ing cannot  help  it." 

"Silence!"  exclaimed  the  fisherman,  in  a  voice  of  stern 
rebuke  ;  and  she,  who  with  all  her  wild  spirit  was  extremely 
alive  to  fear,  shrank  from  him,  moved  close  up  to  Huldbrand, 
trembling,  and  said  very  softly : 

"Are  you  also  angry,  dear  friend?" 

The  knight  pressed  her  soft  hand,  and  tenderly  stroked 
her  locks.  He  was  unable  to  utter  a  word,  for  his  vexation, 
arising  from  the  old  man's  severity  toward  Undine,  closed  his 
lips ;  and  thus  the  two  couple  sat  opposite  to  each  other,  at 
once  heated  with  anger  and  in  embarrassed  silence. 

In  the  midst  of  this  stillness  a  low  knocking  at  the  door 
startled  them  all ;  for  there  are  times  when  a  slight  circum- 
stance, coming  unexpectedly  upon  us,  startles  us  like  some- 
thing supernatural.  But  there  was  the  further  source  of 
alarm,  that  the  enchanted  forest  lay  so  near  them,  and  that 
their  place  of  abode  seemed  at  present  inaccessible  to  any 
human  being.  While  they  were  looking  upon  one  another  in 
doubt,  the  knocking  was  again  heard,  accompanied  with  a 
deep  groan.  The  knight  sprang  to  seize  his  sword.  But  the 
old  man  said,  in  a  low  whisper : 

"If  it  be  what  I  fear  it  is,  no  weapon  of  yours  can  pro- 
tect us." 

Undine  in  the  meanwhile  went  to  the  door,  and  cried  with 
the  firm  voice  of  fearless  displeasure  :  * '  Spirits  of  the  earth  ! 
if  mischief  be  your  aim,  Kiihleborn  shall  teach  you  better 
manners." 

The  terror  of  the  rest  was  increased  by  this  wild  speech ; 


GERMAN   UTERATURE.  357 

they  looked  fearfully  upon  the  girl,  and  Huldbrand  was  just 
recovering  presence  of  inind  .enough  to  ask  what  she  meant, 
when  a  voice  reached  them  from  without : 

"  I  am  no  spirit  of  the  earth,  though  a  spirit  still  in  its 
earthly  body.  You  that  are  within  the  cottage  there,  if  you 
fear  God  and  would  afford  me  assistance,  open  your  door 
tome." 

By  the  time  these  words  were  spoken,  Undine  had 
already  opened  it ;  and  the  lamp  throwing  a  strong  light 
upon  the  stormy  night,  they  perceived  an  aged  priest  with- 
out, who  stepped  back  in  terror,  when  his  eye  fell  on  the  un- 
expected sight  of  a  little  damsel  of  such  exquisite  beauty. 
Well  might  he  think  there  must  be  magic  in  the  wind  and 
witchcraft  at  work  when  a  form  of  such  surpassing  loveliness 
appeared  at  the  door  of  so  humble  a  dwelling.  So  he  lifted 
up  his  voice  in  prayer  : 

u  L/et  all  good  spirits  praise  the  Lord  God  ! " 

"I  am  no  spectre,"  said  Undine,  with  a  smile.  "Do  I 
look  so  very  frightful  ?  And  you  see  that  I  do  not  shrink 
from  holy  words.  I  too  have  knbwledge  of  God,  and  under- 
stand the  duty  of  praising  Him  ;  every  one,  to  be  sure,  has  his 
own  way  of  doing  this,  for  so  He  has  created  us.  Come  in, 
father;  you  will  find  none  but  worthy  people  here." 

The  holy  man  came  bowing  in,  and  cast  round  a  glance  of 
scrutiny,  wearing  at  the  same  time  a  very  placid  and  vener- 
able air.  But  water  was  dropping  from  every  fold  of  his  dark 
garments,  from  his  long  white  beard  and  the  white  locks  of 
his  hair.  The  fisherman  and  the  knight  took  him  to  another 
apartment,  and  furnished  him  with  a  change  of  raiment,  while 
they  gave  his  own  clothes  to  the  woman  to  dry.  The  aged 
stranger  thanked  them  in  a  manner  the  most  humble  and 
courteous;  but  on  the  knight's  offering  him  his  splendid  cloak 
to  wrap  round  him,  he  could  not  be  persuaded  to  take  it,  but 
chose  instead  an  old  grey  coat  that  belonged  to  the  fisherman. 

They  then  returned  to  the  common  apartment.  The  mis- 
tress of  the  house  immediately  offered  her  great  chair  to  the 
priest,  and  continued  urging  it  upon  him  till  she  saw  him 
fairly  in  possession  of  it.  "  You  are  old  and  exhausted,"  said 
she,  "and  are,  moreover,  a  man  of  God. M 


358  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

Undine  shoved  under  the  stranger's  feet  her  little  stool,  on 
which  at  all  other  times  she  used  to  sit  near  to  Huldbrand, 
and  showed  herself  most  gentle  and  amiable  towards  the  old 
man.  Huldbrand  whispered  some  raillery  in  her  ear,  but  she 
replied,  gravely: 

"  He  is  a  minister  of  that  Being  who  created  us  all ;  and 
holy  things  are  not  to  be  treated  with  lightness.'* 

The  knight  and  the  fisherman  now  refreshed  the  priest 
with  food  and  wine ;  and  when  he  had  somewhat  recovered  his 
strength  and  spirits,  he  began  to  relate  how  he  had  the  day 
before  set  out  from  his  cloister,  which  was  situated  far  off  be- 
yond the  great  lake,  in  order  to  visit  the  bishop,  and  acquaint 
him  with  the  distress  into  which  the  cloister  and  its  tributary 
villages  had  fallen,  owing  to  the  extraordinary  floods.  After 
a  long  and  wearisome  wandering,  on  account  of  the  rise  of  the 
waters,  he  had  been  this  day  compelled  toward  evening  to 
procure  the  aid  of  a  couple  of  boatmen,  and  cross  over  an  arm 
of  the  lake  which  had  burst  its  usual  boundary. 

"But  hardly,"  continued  he,  uhad  our  small  ferryboat 
touched  the  waves,  when  that  furious  tempest  burst  forth 
which  is  still  raging  over  our  heads.  It  seemed  as  if  the  bil- 
lows had  been  waiting  our  approach  only  to  rush  on  us  with 
a  madness  the  more  wild.  The  oars  were  wrested  from  the 
grasp  of  my  men  in  an  instant ;  and  shivered  by  the  resistless 
forcev  they  drove  farther  and  farther  out  before  us  upon  the 
waves.  Unable  to  direct  our  course,  we  yielded  to  the  blind 
power  of  nature,  and  seemed  to  fly  over  the  surges  towards 
your  distant  shore,  which  we  already  saw  looming  through 
the  mist  and  foam  of  the  deep.  Then  it  was  at  last  that  our 
boat  turned  short  from  its  course,  and  rocked  with  a  motion 
that  became  more  and  more  wild  and  dizzy :  I  know  not 
whether  it  was  overset,  or  the  violence  of  the  motion  threw 
me  overboard.  In  my  agony  and  struggle  at  the  thought  of 
a  near  and  terrible  death,  the  waves  bore  me  onward,  till  I 
was  cast  ashore  here  beneath  the  trees  of  your  island. " 

"  Yes,  an  island  !n  cried  the  fisherman ;  "a  short  time  ago 
it  was  only  a  point  of  land.  But  now,  since  the  forest-stream 
and  lake  have  become  all  but  mad,  it  appears  to  be  entirely 
changed." 


GERMAN  UTBRATURB.  359 

"I  observed  something  of  it,"  replied  the  priest,  "as  I 
stole  along  the  shore  in  the  obscurity;  and  hearing  nothing 
around  me  but  a  sort  of  wild  uproar,  I  perceived  at  last  that 
the  noise  came  from  a  point  exactly  where  a  beaten  footpath 
disappeared.  I  now  caught  the  light  in  your  cottage,  and 
ventured  hither,  where  I  cannot  sufficiently  thank  my  heav- 
enly Father  that,  after  preserving  me  from  the  waters,  He  has 
also  conducted  me  to  such  pious  people  as  you  are  ;  and  the 
more  so,  as  it  is  difficult  to  say  whether  I  shall  ever  behold 
any  other  persons  in  this  world  except  you  four." 

"  What  mean  you  by  those  words  ?  "  asked  the  fisherman. 

"Can  you  tell  me,  then,  how  long  this  commotion  of  the 
elements  will  last?"  replied  the  priest.  "I  am  old;  the 
stream  of  my  life  may  easily  sink  into  the  ground  and  vanish 
before  the  overflowing  of  that  forest  stream  shall  subside. 
And,  indeed,  it  is  not  impossible  that  more  and  more  of  the 
foaming  waters  may  rush  in  between  you  and  yonder  forest, 
until  you  are  so  far  removed  from  the  rest  of  the  world  that 
your  small  fishing  canoe  may  be  incapable  of  passing  over, 
and  the  inhabitants  of  the  main  land  entirely  forget  you  in 
your  old  age  amid  the  dissipation  and  diversions  of  life." 

At  this  melancholy  foreboding  the  old  lady  shrank  back 
with  a  feeling  of  alarm,  crossed  herself,  and  cried,  "God 
forbid ! " 

But  the  fisherman  looked  upon  her  with  a  smile,  and  said, 
"What  a  strange  being  is  man  !  Suppose  the  worst  to  hap- 
pen ;  our  state  would  not  be  different ;  at  any  rate,  your  own 
would  not,  dear  wife,  from  what  it  is  at  present.  For  have 
you,  these  many  years,  been  farther  from  home  than  the  bor- 
der of  the  forest  ?  And  have  you  seen  a  single  human  being 
beside  Undine  and  myself?  It  is  now  only  a  short  time  since 
the  coming  of  the  knight  and  the  priest.  They  will  remain 
with  us,  even  if  we  do  become  a  forgotten  island;  so,  after 
all,  you  will  be  a  gainer." 

"  I  know  not,"  replied  the  ancient  dame  ;  "  it  is  a  dismal 
thought,  when  brought  fairly  home  to  the  mind,  that  we  are 
for  ever  separated  from  mankind,  even  though  in  fact  we 
never  do  know  nor  see  them." 

"  Then  you  will  remain  with  us — then  you  will  remain 


360  LITERATURE  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

with  us  !  "  whispered  Undine  in  a  voice  scarcely  audible  and 
half  singing,  while  she  nestled  closer  to  Huldbrand's  side. 
But  he  was  immersed  in  the  deep  and  strange  musings  of  his 
own  mind.  The  region,  on  the  farther  side  of  the  forest- 
river,  seemed,  since  the  last  words  of  the  priest,  to  have  been 
withdrawing  farther  and  farther,  in  dim  perspective,  from  his 
view  ;  and  the  blooming  island  on  which  he  lived  grew  green 
and  smiled  more  freshly  in  his  fancy.  His  bride  glowed  like 
the  fairest  rose,  not  of  this  obscure  nook  only,  but  even  of  the 
whole  wide  world;  and  the  priest  was  now  present. 

Added  to  which,  the  mistress  of  the  family  was  directing 
an  angry  glance  at  Undine,  because,  even  in  the  presence  of 
the  priest,  she  leant  so  fondly  on  the  knight ;  and  it  seemed 
as  if  she  was  on  the  point  of  breaking  out  in  harsh  reproof. 
Then  burst  forth  from  the  mouth  of  Huldbrand,  as  he  turned 
to  the  priest,  "  Father,  you  here  see  before  you  an  affianced 
pair  ;  and  if  this  maiden  and  these  good  old  people  have  no 
objection,  you  shall  unite  us  this  very  evening." 

The  aged  couple  were  both  exceedingly  surprised.  They 
had  often,  it  is  true,  thought  of  this,  but  as  yet  they  had 
never  mentioned  it ;  and  now  when  the  knight  spoke,  it  came 
upon  them  like  something  wholly  new  and  unexpected.  Un- 
dine became  suddenly  grave,  and  looked  down  thoughtfully, 
while  the  priest  made  inquiries  respecting  the  circumstances 
of  their  acquaintance,  and  asked  the  old  people  whether  they 
gave  their  consent  to  the  union.  After  a  great  number  of 
questions  and  answers,  the  affair  was  arranged  to  the  satisfac- 
tion of  all;  and  the  mistress  of  the  house  went  to  prepare  the 
bridal  apartment  for  the  young  couple,  and  also,  with  a  view 
to  grace  the  nuptial  solemnity,  to  seek  for  two  consecrated 
tapers,  which  she  had  for  a  long  time  kept  for  this  occasion. 

The  knight  in  the  meanwhile  busied  himself  about  his 
golden  chain,  for  the  purpose  of  disengaging  two  of  its  links, 
that  he  might  make  an  exchange  of  rings  with  his  bride.  But 
when  she  saw  his  object  she  started  from  her  trance  of  musing 
and  exclaimed : 

u  Not  so  !  my  parents  by  no  means  sent  me  into  the  world 
so  perfectly  destitute  ;  on  the  contrary,  they  foresaw,  even  at 
that  early  period,  that  such  a  night  as  this  would  come." 


GERMAN   LITERATURE.  361 

Thus  speaking  she  went  out  of  the  room,  and  a  moment 
after  returned  witli  two  costly  rings,  of  which  she  gave  one  to 
her  bridegroom  and  kept  the  other  for  herself.  The  old  fisher- 
man was  beyond  measure  astonished  at  this ;  and  his  wife^ 
who  was  just  re-entering  the  room,  was  even  more  surprised 
than  he,  that  neither  of  them  had  ever  seen  these  jewels  in 
the  child's  possession. 

"  My  parents, "  said  Undine,  <(  sewed  these  trinkets  to  that 
beautiful  raiment  which  I  wore  the  very  day  I  came  to  you. 
They  also  charged  me  on  no  account  whatever  to  mention 
them  to  any  one  before  my  wedding  evening.  At  the  time  of 
my  coming,  therefore,  I  took  them  off  in  secret,  and  have 
kept  them  concealed  to  the  present  hour." 

The  priest  now  cut  short  all  further  questioning  and  won- 
dering, while  he  lighted  the  consecrated  tapers,  placed  them 
on  a  table,  and  ordered  the  bridal  pair  to  stand  opposite  to 
him.  He  then  pronounced  the  few  solemn  words  of  the  cere- 
mony, and  made  them  one.  The  elder  couple  gave  the 
younger  their  blessing  ;  and  the  bride,  gently  trembling  and 
thoughtful,  leaned  upon  the  knight. 

The  priest  then  spoke  out :  "  You  are  strange  people,  after 
all ;  for  why  did  you  tell  me  that  you  were  the  only  inhabit- 
ants of  the  island  ?  so  far  is  this  from  being  true,  I  have  seen, 
the  whole  time  I  was  performing  the  ceremony,  a  tall,  stately 
man,  in  a  white  mantle,  standing  opposite  to  me,  looking  in 
at  the  window.  He  must  be  still  waiting  before  the  door,  if 
peradventure  you  would  invite  him  to  come  in." 

"God  forbid!"  cried  the  old  lady,  shrinking  back;  the 
fisherman  shook  his  head,  without  opening  his  lips  ;  and 
Huldbrand  sprang  to  the  window.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he 
could  still  discern  a  white  streak,  which  soon  disappeared  in 
the  gloom.  He  convinced  the  priest  that  he  must  have  been 
mistaken  in  his  impression ;  and  they  all  sat  down  together 
round  a  bright  and  comfortable  hearth. 


362  MTERATURE  OF  AM,  NATIONS. 


THE  SEALED  FOUNTAIN. 

(From  "Undine.") 

ONE  day,  a  few  moments  after  Huldbrand  had  ridden  out, 
Undine  called  together  the  domestics  of  the  family,  and  or- 
dered them  to  bring  a  large  stone,  and  carefully  to  cover  with  it 
a  magnificent  fountain,  that  was  situated  in  the  middle  of  the 
castle  court.  The  servants  objected  thaf  it  would  oblige  them 
to  bring  water  from  the  valley  below.  Undine  smiled  sadly. 

"  I  am  sorry,  my  friends,"  replied  she,  "to  increase  your 
labor;  I  would  rather  bring  up  the  water- vessels  myself;  but 
this  fountain  must  indeed  be  closed.  Believe  me  when  I  say 
that  it  must  be  done,  and  that  only  by  doing  it  we  can  avoid 
a  greater  evil." 

The  domestics  were  all  rejoiced  to  gratify  their  gentle 
mistress;  and  making  no  further  inquiry,  they  seized  the 
enormous  stone.  While  they  were  raising  it  in  their  hands, 
and  were  now  on  the  point  of  adjusting  it  over  the  fountain, 
Bertalda  came  running  to  the  place,  and  cried,  with  an  air  of 
command,  that  they  must  stop;  that  the  water  she  used,  so 
improving  to  her  complexion,  was  brought  from  this  fountain, 
and  that  she  would  by  no  means  allow  it  to  be  closed. 

This  time,  however,  Undine,  while  she  showed  her  usual 
gentleness,  showed  more  than  her  usual  resolution:  she  said  it 
belonged  to  her,  as  mistress  of  the  house,  to  direct  the  house- 
hold according  to  her  best  judgment;  and  that  she  was  account- 
able in  this  to  no  one  but  her  lord  and  husband. 

"  See,  O  pray  see,"  exclaimed  the  dissatisfied  and  indignant 
Bertalda,  "how  the  beautiful  water  is  curling  and  curving, 
winding  and  waving  there,  as  if  disturbed  at  being  shut  out 
from  the  bright  sunshine,  and  fr  )m  the  cheerful  view  of  the 
human  countenance,  for  whose  mirror  it  was  created." 

In  truth  the  water  of  the  fountain  was  agitated,  and  foam- 
ing, and  hissing  in  a  surprising  manner;  it  seemed  as  if  there 
were  something  within  possessing  life  and  will,  that  was  strug- 
gling to  free  itself  from  confinement.  But  Undine  only  the 
more  earnestly  urged  the  accomplishment  of  her  commands. 
This  earnestness  was  scarcely  required.  The  servants  of  the 


GERMAN  LITERATURE.  363 

castle  were  as  happy  in  obeying  their  gentle  lady,  as  in  oppos- 
ing the  haughty  spirit  of  Bertalda;  and  however  the  latter 
might  scold  and  threaten,  still  the  stone  was  in  a  few  minutes 
lying  firm  over  the  opening  of  the  fountain.  Undine  leaned 
thoughtfully  over  it,  and  wrote  with  her  beautiful  fingers  on 
the  flat  surface.  She  must,  however,  have  had  something 
very  sharp  and  corrosive  in  her  hand,  for  when  she  retired, 
and  the  domestics  went  up  to  examine  the  stone,  they  discov- 
ered various  strange  characters  upon  it,  which  none  of  them 
had  seen  there  before. 

When  the  knight  returned  home,  toward  evening,  Bertalda 
received  him  with  tears,  and  complaints  of  Undine's  conduct. 
He  cast  a  severe  glance  of  reproach  at  his  poor  wife,  and  she 
looked  down  in  distress;  yet  she  said,  very  calmly: 

"My  lord  and  husband,  you  never  reprove  even  a  bond- 
slave before  you  hear  his  defence;  how  much  less,  then,  your 
wedded  wife ! " 

"  Speak,  what  moved  you  to  this  singular  conduct  ?*'  said 
the  knight,  with  a  gloomy  countenance. 

"I  could  wish  to  tell  you  when  we  are  entirely  alone," 
said  Undine,  with  a  sigh. 

"  You  can  tell  me  equally  well  in  the  presence  of  Bertalda," 
he  replied. 

"Yes,  if  you  command  me,"  said  Undine;  "  but  do  not 
command  me — pray,  pray  do  not ! " 

She  looked  so  humble,  affectionate,  and  obedient,  that  the 
heart  of  the  knight  was  touched  and  softened,  as  if  it  felt  the 
influence  of  a  ray  from  better  times.  He  kindly  took  her  arm 
within  his,  and  led  her  to  his  apartment,  where  she  spoke  as 
follows: 

"  You  already  know  something,  my  beloved  lord,  of  Kiihle- 
born,  my  evil-disposed  uncle,  and  have  often  felt  displeasure 
at  meeting  him  in  the  passages  of  this  castle.  Several  times 
has  he  terrified  Bertalda  even  to  swooning.  He  does  this  be- 
cause he  possesses  no  soul,  being  a  mere  elemental  mirror  of 
the  outward  world,  while  of  the  world  within  he  can  give  no 
reflection.  Then,  too,  he  sometimes  observes  that  you  are 
displeased  with  me,  that  in  my  childish  weakness  I  weep  at 
this,  and  that  Bertalda,  it  may  be,  laughs  at  the  same  moment 


364  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

Hence  it  is  that  he  imagines  all  is  wrong  with  us,  and  in  var- 
ious ways  mixes  with  our  circle  unbidden.  What  do  I  gain 
by  reproving  him,  by  showing  displeasure,  and  sending  him 
away  ?  He  does  not  believe  a  word  I  say.  His  poor  nature 
has  no  idea  that  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  love  have  so  sweet  a 
resemblance,  and  are  so  intimately  connected  that  no  power 
on  earth  is  able  to  separate  them.  A  smile  shines  in  the 
midst  of  tears,  and  a  smile  calls  forth  tears  from  their  dwell- 
ing place.5' 

She  looked  up  at  Huldbrand,  smiling  and  weeping,  and 
he  again  felt  within  his  heart  all  the  magic  of  his  former  love. 
She  perceived  it,  and  pressed  him  more  tenderly  to  her,  while 
with  tears  of  joy  she  went  on  thus: 

"When  tJ:  '  disturber  of  our  peace  would  not  be  dismissed 
with  words,  I  was  obliged  to  shut  the  door  upon  him;  and  the 
only  entrance  by  which  he  has  access  to  us  is  that  fountain. 
His  connection  with  the  other  water-spirits  here  in  this  region 
is  cut  off  by  the  valleys  that  border  upon  us;  and  his  kingdom 
first  commences  farther  off  on  the  Danube,  in  whose  tributary 
streams  some  of  his  good  friends  have  their  abode.  For  this 
reason  I  caused  the  stone  to  be  placed  over  the  opening  of 
the  fountain,  and  inscribed  characters  upon  it,  which  baffle 
all  the  efforts  of  my  suspicious  uncle;  so  that  he  now  has  no 
power  of  intruding  either  upon  you,  or  me,  or  Bertalda.  Human 
beings,  it  is  true,  notwithstanding  the  characters  I  have  in- 
scribed there,  are  able  to  raise  the  stone  without  any  extraor- 
dinary trouble;  there  is  nothing  to  prevent  them.  If  you 
choose,  therefore,  remove  it,  according  to  Bertalda's  desire; 
but  she  assuredly  knows  not  what  she  asks.  The  rude  Kiihle- 
born  looks  with  peculiar  ill-will  upon  her;  and  should  those 
things  come  to  pass  that  he  has  predicted  to  me,  and  which 
may  happen  without  your  meaning  any  evil,  ah !  dearest, 
even  you  yourself  would  be  exposed  to  peril." 

Huldbrand  felt  the  generosity  of  his  gentle  wife  in  the 
depths  of  his  heart,  since  she  had  been  so  active  in  confining 
her  formidable  defender,  and  even  at  the  very  moment  she 
was  reproached  for  it  by  Bertalda.  He  pressed  her  in  his 
arms  with  the  tenderest  affection  and  said,  with  emotion : 

"  The  stone  shall  remain  unmoved;  all  remains,  and  ever 


GERMAN   LITERATURE.  365 

shall  remain,  just  as  you  choose  to  have  it,  my  sweetest 
Undine?" 

At  these  long-withheld  expressions  of  tenderness,  she  re- 
turned his  caresses  with  lowly  delight,  and  at  length  said: 
"  My  dearest  husband,  since  you  are  so  kind  and  indulgent 
to-day,  may  I  venture  to  ask  a  favor  of  you?  See  now,  it  is 
with  you  as  with  summer.  Even  amid  its  highest  splendor, 
summer  puts  on  the  flaming  and  thundering  crown  of  glorious 
tempests,  in  which  it  strongly  resembles  a  king  and  god  on 
earth.  You,  too,  are  sometimes  terrible  in  your  rebukes;  your 
eyes  flash  lightning,  while  thunder  resounds  in  your  voice j 
and  although  this  may  be  quite  becoming  to  you,  I  in  my 
folly  cannot  but  sometimes  weep  at  it.  But  never,  I  entreat 
you,  behave  thus  toward  me  on  a  river,  or  even  when  we  are 
near  any  water.  For  if  you  should,  my  relations  would  acquire 
a  right  over  me.  They  would  inexorably  tear  me  from  you 
in  their  fury,  because  they  would  conceive  that  one  of  their 
race  was  injured;  and  I  should  be  compelled,  as  long  as  I 
lived,  to  dwell  below  in  the  crystal  palaces,  and  never  dare 
ascend  to  you  again;  or  should  they  send  me  up  to  you  !  O 
God  !  that  would  be  far  worse  still.  No,  no,  my  beloved  hus- 
band; let  it  not  come  to  that,  if  your  poor  Undine  is  dear  to 
you." 

He  solemnly  promised  to  do  as  she  desired,  and,  inex- 
pressibly happy  and  full  of  affection,  the  married  pair  returned 
from  the  apartment.  At  this  very  moment,  Bertalda  came 
with  some  work-people  whom  she  had  meanwhile  ordered  to 
attend  her,  and  said  with  a  fretful  air,  which  she  had  assumed 
of  late: 

"  Well,  now  the  secret  consultation  is  at  an  end,  the  stone 
may  be  removed.  Go  out,  workmen,  and  see  to  it." 

The  knight,  however,  highly  resenting  her  impertinence, 
said,  in  brief  and  very  decisive  terms:  uThe  stone  remains 
where  it  is  ! "  He  reproved  Bertalda  also  for  the  vehemence 
that  she  had  shown  towards  his  wife.  Whereupon  the  work- 
men, smiling  with  secret  satisfaction,  withdrew;  while  Ber- 
talda, pale  with  rage,  hurried  away  to  her  room. 


FRENCH  LITERATURE. 

PERIOD  VIII.     1820-1870. 


'RENCH  Literature  of  the  nineteenth  century  is 
clearly  dominated  by  the  great  fame  and  numer- 
ous achievements  of  Victor  Hugo.  He  is  not 
only  one  of  the  greatest  lyrical  poets,  but  also 
one  of  the  greatest  prose-writers  of  France.  At  the 
opening  of  the  century  the  pious  Chateaubriand 
reigned  in  literature,  as  the  sceptical  Voltaire  had  reigned 
before  him.  Hugo  in  youth  aimed  to  be  a  second  Chateau- 
briand, and  was  recognized  by  that  sovereign  as  '  *  the  sub- 
lime child."  Under  the  influence  of  his  pious  mother,  Hugo 
was  then  a  royalist  and  Catholic,  but  on  attaining  manhood, 
he  followed  the  course  of  his  father,  who  had  been  a  Repub- 
lican general  and  was  devoted  to  Napoleon.  The  poet  long 
afterwards  pronounced  his  early  royalist  "  Odes,"  his  "  follies 
before  he  was  born.' ' 

The  French  literary  revolution,  which  closely  followed 
the  restoration  of  the  Bourbons,  involved  emancipation  from 
the  classical  traditions  of  Malherbe.  The  young  poets, 
grouped  in  the  Ce*nacle,  transformed  the  stilted  Alexandrine 
into  a  thing  of  life  and  beauty,  varied  its  swing,  employed 
irregular  rhyme  and  metre,  enlarged,  the  poetic  vocabulary 
and  abandoned  the  artificial  paraphrases  of  conventional 
poetry  for  words  of  force.  Beyond  this  change  of  form  there 
was  a  change  of  spirit,  a  new  atmosphere  of  freedom.  The 
Romanticists  studied  Sir  Walter  Scott  as  a  master  and 
gathered  inspiration  from  Shakespeare,  whom  Voltaire  had 
pronounced  "an  inspired  savage."  They  saturated 
366 


FRENCH   LITERATURE.  367 

selves  with  mediaeval  lore  and  art  and  chivalry.  Alongside 
of  kings  and  queens  and  warriors,  were  henceforth  to  be 
heroes  from  the  common  people,  and  even  brigands  and 
valets.  The  ugly  was  to  take  its  place,  as  the  grotesque,  side 
by  side  #ith  the  beautiful  and  sublime.  Hugo  announced 
this  theory  in  the  preface  to  his  "Cromwell"  (1828),  and 
illustrated  it  by  his  creation  of  Quasimodo  and  Triboulet. 

Victor  Hugo  did  not  originate  the  Romantic  revolt  in 
France,  but  he  soon  declared  his  adhesion,  and  then  put  him- 
self at  its  head.  He  foresaw  that  the  battlefield  would  be 
the  stage,  and  for  it  he  composed  his  strong  drama,  "Her- 
nani." The  classicists  petitioned  Charles  X.  to  prohibit  the 
play,  but  the  King  sensibly  replied  that  where  it  was  a  ques- 
tion of  poetry  his  place  was  in  the  pit.  The  first  night  re- 
solved itself  into  an  uproarious  pitched  battle  between  the 
grisatres  (graybeards)  or  perruqucs  (periwigs)  and  the  Ro- 
manticists. Gautier,  as  leader  of  the  latter,  had  dressed  him- 
self for  the  occasion  in  velvet  coat,  scarlet  vest,  green  trousers 
and  wore  his  hair  long,  falling  down  his  neck.  Hernani,  the 
hero  of  the  play,  is  a  bandit  who  loves  Dona  Sol,  the  affianced 
of  the  aged  Don  Gomez.  Being  caught  in  a  stolen  inter- 
view, Hernani  falls  into  the  hands  of  Gomez,  but  the  old 
nobleman  refuses  to  surrender  the  bandit  to  Charles  V.  Her- 
nani wishes  to  kill  this  monarch  in  revenge,  and  begs  his  life 
of  Gomez,  yet  gives  him  his  horn  and  promises  to  drink 
poison  whenever  Silva  shall  call  on  him  to  yield  his  forfeited 
life  whenever  a  blast  is  blown  on  the  horn.  Charles  V.,  being 
made  Bmperor,  frustrates  his  would-be  assassin,  and  forgives 
Hernani.  The  latter  is  about  to  wed  Dona  Sol  when  the  un- 
expected blast  of  the  horn  is  heard.  The  lovers  take  the 
fatal  poison  and  expire  in  each  other's  arms. 

The  Romanticist  group  comprised,  beside  Hugo  and  Bal- 
zac, the  great  critic  Sainte-Beuve,  Nodier,  De  Vigny,  De 
Musset,  Merime*e,  Gautier,  Gerard  de  Nerval,  and  the  elder 
Dumas.  They  were  victorious,  and  in  the  Revolution  of 
July,  1830,  their  cause  became  identified  with  that  of  politi- 
cal as  well  as  literary  liberty.  It  was  but  natural  that  Hugo, 
having  been  the  acknowledged  champion  of  the  latter,  should 
over-estimate  himself  as  the  champion  of  the  former.  The 


368  LITERATURE   OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

Romantic  revolt,  important  as  it  seemed  at  the  time,  was  but 
the  chief  feature  of  this  period  of  French  literature.  The 
long  life  of  Hugo  and  the  fertility  of  his  age  prolonged  the 
effects  of  the  movement.  His  great  romantic  novel,  "  Notre 
Dame  de  Paris,"  appeared  in  1831,  and  thirty  years  later, 
during  his  exile  from  France,  came  his  still  greater  work, 
"  L/es  Miserables,"  which  was  followed  by  others  of  the  same 
general  spirit  until  1 '  Quatre-vingt-treize  ' '  closed  the  series 
in  1874.  In  the  greatest  of  these  he  poured  forth  his  supreme 
pity  for  the  poor  and  suffering,  especially  for  persecuted  in- 
nocence. In  spite  of  the  dreadful  pictures  of  sin  and  misery 
which  he  exhibits,  Hugo  is  an  optimist  and  believes  in  the 
redemption  of  man.  This  spirit  pervades  the  whole  of  the 
Romantic  period.  But  before  the  close  of  Hugo's  career,  the 
new  era  of  realism  and  pessimism  had  begun.  In  spite  of  the 
superficial  brilliance  of  the  Second  Empire,  its  stifling  despot- 
ism drove  the  thoughtful  writers  of  the  time  to  pessimism. 

In  France,  as  in  England,  the  modern  novel  owes  much 
to  the  genius  of  women.  The  most  famous  of  these  novelists 
disguised  herself  under  the  masculine  name  George  Sand,  but 
could  not  conceal  in  her  swiftly-written  stories  the  instincts 
and  passion  of  her  sex.  Her  personal  life  was  a  succession  of 
romances,  n«t  always  creditable,  but  all  were  turned  to  profit 
for  her  brilliant  pictures  of  actual  life.  Though  yielding  to 
the  temptations  of  a  corrupt  society,  she  somehow  preserved 
a  love  for  ideal  purity,  and  achieved  masterpieces  of  idyllic 
beauty  as  well  as  questionable  presentation  of  social  problems. 

The  remarkable  wavering  between  Bonapartism  and  Re- 
publicanism, which  has  characterized  a  large  part  of  the 
French  people,  was  fully  exemplified  in  the  song-writer 
Beranger.  Sometimes  holding  a  clerkship  under  the  govern- 
ment, sometimes  in  prison  for  his  political  songs,  he  was  ever 
a  favorite  of  the  people,  whose  feelings  and  desires  he  vigor- 
ously expressed.  The  critics  have  condemned  him  as  vulgar, 
but  the  masses  of  his  countrymen  and  ordinary  readers  every- 
where applaud  his  wit,  patriotism,  cheeriness,  and  humanity. 
Probably  more  even  than  the  historian  Thiers,  Beranger  in- 
tensified the  French  devotion  to  Napoleon,  which  became  the 
basis  of  the  Second  Empire. 


WHILE  he  lived  the  great  genius  of 
Victor  Marie  Hugo  was  dazzling  and 
bewildering,  but  in  the  years  which 
have  elapsed  since  his  death  we  have 
learned  to  discriminate  between  what 
in  him  was  truly  great,  and  what  was  merely  fortuitous. 
When  he  was  born,  in  1802,  the  destinies  of  France  were 
stormy  and  ambiguous,  and  parties  were  arrayed  against  one 
another  with  extraordinary  bitterness.  The  surging  of  the 
muddy  waves  stirred  up  by  the  earthquake  of  the  French 
Revolution  was  still  terrifying  civilization ;  and  Napoleon 
was  at  the  height  of  his  marvellous  career.  Society  had  been 
shaken  to  its  foundations,  and  men  were  in  doubt  whether 
anything  that  had  been  would  endure.  Violence  and  tragedy 
had  become  familiar  things,  and  vast  schemes  of  glory  and 
conquest  existed  side  by  side  with  despair,  anarchy,  atheism 
and  doubt.  Not  only  parties,  but  families  were  divided; 
and  the  man  whose  opinions  were  worshipped  to-day,  might 
suffer  on  the  scaffold  for  them  to-morrow.  Children  born  in 
such  an  age  might  well  be  expected  to  show  in  their  natures 
traces  of  the  agitation  and  inequalities  amidst  which  they 
were  brought  forth. 

Victor's  own  father  and  mother  were  on  opposite  sides  of 
the  quarrel  of  the  day.  The  father,  a  general,  was  wedded  to 
the  liberal  interests  in  politics,  while  the  mother  was  a 
staunch  royalist.  The  romance  in  the  child's  temperament 
at  first  caused  him  to  sympathize  with  the  splendor,  the  pic- 
turesqueness  and  the  pathos  of  the  old  regime  ;  he  was  swayed 
by  his  mother,  and  his  immature  judgment  found  nothing  but 
darkness  and  disorder  in  the  cause  of  the  revolutionists.  But 
ix— 24  369 


37°  LITERATURE  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

later,  when  lie  had  had  time  to  think  independently,  he  dis- 
covered a  more  spiritual  beauty  and  harmony  in  the  new  dis- 
pensation than  in  the  old ;  and,  extreme  in  all  things,  he 
plunged  with  such  ardor  into  the  battle  against  the  past,  that 
he  became  the  leader  among  the  enthusiastic  young  fellows 
who  wanted  to  tear  down  the  sky  of  their  fathers  and  build  a 
fresh  one  in  its  place.  He  had  the  valuable  trait  of  believing 
profoundly  in  himself,  and  of  being  able  to  see  but  one  side 
of  a  question  at  a  time.  Common  sense  was  a  quality  of 
which  he  knew  nothing ;  he  was  a  poet  first  of  all,  and  he 
tried  in  perfect  good  faith  to  turn  poetry  into  politics,  and 
to  make  the  facts  of  daily  life  rhyme  together  like  the  stanzas 
of  an  ode.  The  foundations  of  old  beliefs  having  been  over- 
thrown, people  were  prepared  to  believe  or  disbelieve  in  any- 
thing :  never  was  there  a  time  when  original  gospels  stood  a 
better  chance  of  finding  disciples.  Hugo  was  carried  along 
on  the  crest  of  a  wave  which  he  imagined  he  himself  had 
created ;  whereas,  in  truth,  he  had  no  more  to  do  with  pro- 
ducing or  directing  it  than  has  the  fly  on  the  wheel.  But 
his  quick  sympathies  enabled  him  spontaneously  to  do  and 
say  better  than  the  others  the  things  which  were  in  the 
thoughts  and  the  purposes  of  the  epoch  ;  so  he  was  accepted 
as  the  leader  which  he  announced  and  fancied  himself  to 
be.  His  undoubted  gifts  rendered  the  illusion  complete  ; 
and  he  really  was  inspired  to  achievements  which  would  else 
have  been  impossible  to  him,  by  the  exciting  and  stimulating 
atmosphere  in  which  his  career  was  accomplished. 

Had  he  confined  himself  to  literature  he  would  have 
escaped  many  mistakes,  and  have  left  behind  him  a  far  more 
consistent  and  reasonable  record.  He  was  really  the  most 
prominent  figure  of  the  romantic  school  in  France  ;  though 
we  now  know  that  others — as,>  for  example,  Balzac — were 
greater  than  he ;  his  poems,  novels  and  plays  had  immense 
vogue,  and  some  of  his  poetry,  at  least,  is  sure  to  stand  the 
test  of  time.  But  he  was  impelled  to  make  himself  his  most 
dramatic  and  adventurous  character ;  and  his  utter  lack  of  the 
sense  of  humor  hurried  him  into  not  a  few  preposterous  follies 
and  absurdities.  He  posed  as  the  unrelenting  foe  of  the 
Third  Napoleon ;  and  when  that  monarch  was  overthrown, 


FRENCH   LITERATURE.  3f I 

Hugo  no  doubt  thought  that  it  was  his  sword  that  had  hewn 
him  down.  He  fell,  in  short,  into  the  common  error  of  ardent 
natures  of  fancying  himself  the  motive  power  of  events  which 
swept  him  helplessly  whither  he  knew  not. 

Eloquence,  a  royal  imagination,  versatility,  artistic  per- 
ception, and  a  rush  and  fury  of  conviction  almost  unparalleled, 
were  the  characteristics  of  his  literary  productions,  the  list  of 
which  would  fill  a  closely  printed  page.  His  power  of  por- 
traying character  was  great,  his  descriptive  power  enormous, 
and  the  magnitude  of  his  conceptions  was  only  equalled  by 
the  indomitable  energy  with  which  he  carried  them  out.  He 
had  the  faculty  of  creating  interest  in  his  reader;  and  though 
one's  judgment  and  sense  of  reality  is  constantly  outraged,  it 
is  impossible  to  resist  his  spell,  once  we  come  under  its  influ- 
ence. "  L,es  Miserables"  and  "  L/Homme  qui  Rit"  are  truly 
superb  romances,  and  full  of  lofty  and  inspiring  thought. 
His  poems  have  an  exquisite  melody  and  completeness  which 
we  do  not  readily  find  in  the  verse  of  any  other  French 
author.  Several  of  his  dramas,  such  as  uLe  Roi  S'amuse," 
hold  the  stage  to-day.  Yet  almost  all  that  he  has  done  needs 
much  sifting  ;  and  when  the  final  criticism  is  made,  it  will  be 
found  that  his  total  permanent  contribution  to  literature  is 
very  much  smaller  than  the  catalogue  would  pretend. 

Though  he  had  contributed  much  to  the  revival  of  the 
Napoleonic  cult,  he  was  an  earnest  Republican,  and  after 
the  coup  d^etat  of  1851  he  was  banished  from  France.  He 
was  for  many  years  a  political  exile  in  the  Channel  Islands, 
and  there  a  great  amount  of  his  best  work  was  done.  His 
domestic  life  was  happy  and  honorable ;  his  life  was  prolonged 
beyond  the  common  span,  for  he  died  at  eighty-three.  His 
closing  years  were  spent  in  the  Paris  which  he  loved  and  had 
done  much  to  honor ;  and  the  sensation  of  his  death  could  be 
compared  with  that  caused  by  the  demise  of  Voltaire.  His 
egotism  was  naive  and  amiable,  and  belonged  to  his  French 
temperament;  he  did  much  good  in  his  day,  and  his  aims 
were  at  all  times  pure,  elevated  and  righteous.  But  he  was 
less  gigantic  than  he  and  his  contemporaries  supposed. 


372  UTERATURE  OF  AI,I<  NATIONS. 


THE  DJINNS. 

ACCORDING  to  Mohammedan  belief,  the  Djinns  (also  called  jinns 
or  genii'}  are  beings  like  devils,  created  of  fire.  Their  abode  is  Mount 
Oaf,  which  surrounds  the  earth.  Part  only  of  this  ode,  which  repre- 
sents, by  a  metrical  device,  the  approach  and  departure  of  the  dreaded 
spirits  of  fire,  is  given. 

Hark,  the  rising  swell, 
With  each  nearer  burst ! 
Like  the  toll  of  bell 
Of  a  convent  cursed ; 
Like  the  billowy  roar 
On  a  storm-lashed  shore, — 
Now  hushed,  now  once  more 
Maddening  to  its  worst. 

O  God !  the  deadly  sound 
Of  the  Djinns'  fearful  cry  ! 
Quick,  'neath  the  spiral  round 
Of  the  deep  staircase  fly  ! 
See,  see  our  lamplight  fade  ! 
And  of  the  balustrade 
Mounts,  mounts  the  circling  shade 
Up  to  the  ceiling  high  ! 

'T  is  the  Djinns'  wild  streaming  swarm 
Whistling  in  their  tempest-flight ; 
Snap  the  tall  yews  'neath  the  storm, 
Like  a  pine-flame  crackling  bright. 
Swift  and  heavy,  lo,  their  crowd 
Through  the  heavens  rushing  loud, 
Like  a  livid  thunder-cloud 
With  its  bolt  of  fiery  night ! 

Ha !  they  are  on  us,  close  without ! 
Shut  tight  the  shelter  where  we  lie  ! 
With  hideous  din  the  monster  rout, 
Dragon  and  vampire,  fill  the  sky  ! 
The  loosened  rafter  overhead 
Trembles  and  bends  like  quivering  reed  ; 
Shakes  the  old  door  with  shuddering  dread, 
As  from  its  rusty  hinge  't  would  fly  ! 


BISHOP  MYRIBL  JIND  THE    CONVENTIONALIST. 


FRENCH  LITERATURE.  373 

Wild  cries  of  hell  voices  that  howl  and  shriek ! 
The  horrid  swarm  before  the  tempest  tossed — 
O  Heaven ! — descends  my  lowly  roof  to  seek : 
Bends  the  strong  wall  beneath  the  furious  host 
Totters  the  house,  as  though,  like  dry  leaf  shorn 
Prom  autumn  bough  and  on  the  mad  blast  borne, 
Up  from  its  deep  foundations  it  were  torn 
To  join  the  stormy  whirl.     Ah  !  all  is  lost! 

O  Prophet !  if  thy  hand  but  now 

Save  from  these  foul  and  hellish  things, 

A  pilgrim  at  thy  shrine  I'll  bow, 

Laden  with  pious  offerings. 

Bid  their  hot  breath  its  fiery  rain 

Stream  on  my  faithful  door  in  vain, 

Vainly  upon  my  blackened  pane 

Grate  the  fierce  claws  of  their  dark  wings ! 

They  have  passed !—  and  their  wild  legion 
Cease  to  thunder  at  my  door ; 
Fleeting  through  night's  rayless  region, 
Hither  they  return  no  more. 
Clanking  chains  and  sounds  of  woe 
Fill  the  forests  as  they  go ; 
And  the  tall  oaks  cower  low, 
Bent  their  flaming  flight  before. 

On !  on !  the  storm  of  wings 
Bears  far  the  fiery  fear, 
Till  scarce  the  breeze  now  brings 
Dim  murmurings  to  the  ear ; 
Like  locusts'  humming  hail, 
Or  thrash  of  tiny  flail 
Plied  by  the  pattering  hail 
On  some  old  roof- tree  near. 

BISHOP  MYRIEL  AND  THE  CONVENTIONIST. 

(From  "Les  Miserables.") 

The  good  bishop  was  perplexed  ;  sometimes  he  walked  in 
that  direction,  but  he  returned.  At  last,  one  day  the  news 
was  circulated  in  the  town  that  the  young  herdsboy,  who 

served  the  Conventionist  G in  his  retreat,  had  come  for  a 

doctor ;  that  the  old  wretch  was  dying ;  that  he  was  motion- 


374  LITERATURE  OF  AW«  NATIONS. 

less  and  could  not  live  through  the  night.  "  Thank  God  ! " 
added  many. 

The  bishop  took  his  cane,  put  on  his  overcoat,  because  his 
cassock  was  badly  worn,  and  besides  the  night  wind  was  evi- 
dently rising,  and  set  out.  The  sun  was  setting,  it  had  nearly 
touched  the  horizon  when  the  bishop  reached  the  accursed 
spot.  He  felt  a  certain  quickening  of  the  pulse  as  he  drew 
near  the  den.  He  jumped  over  a  ditch,  cleared  a  hedge,  made 
his  way  through  a  brush  fence,  found  himself  in  a  dilapidated 
garden,  and  after  a  bold  advance  across  the  open  ground,  sud- 
denly behind  some  high  brushwood  he  discovered  the  retreat. 

It  was  a  low,  poverty-stricken  hut,  small  and  clean,  with 
a  little  vine  nailed  up  in  front.  Before  the  door,  in  an  old 
chair  on  rollers,  there  sat  a  man  with  white  hair,  looking 
with  smiling  gaze  upon  the  setting  sun.  The  young  herds- 
boy  stood  near  him,  handing  him  a  bowl  of  milk.  While 
the  bishop  was  looking  the  old  man  raised  his  voice. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  need  nothing  more,"  and 
his  smile  changed  from  the  sun  to  rest  upon  the  boy. 

The  bishop  stepped  forward.  At  the  sound  of  his  foot- 
steps the  old  man  turned  his  head,  and  his  face  expressed  as 
much  surprise  as  one  can  feel  after  a  long  life. 

"This  is  the  first  time  since  I  have  lived  here,"  said  he, 
"that  I  have  had  a  visitor.  Who  are  you,  monsieur?" 

"My  name  is  Bienvenu  Myriel,"  the  bishop  replied. 

"  Bienvenu  Myriel?  I  have  heard  that  name  before. 
Are  you  he  whom  the  people  call  Monseigneur  Bienvenu?" 

"  I  am." 

The  old  man  continued,  half-smiling:  "Then  you  are 
my  bishop?'7 

"  Possibly. " 

"  Come  in,  monsieur." 

The  conventionist  extended  his  hand  to  the  bishop,  but 
he  did  not  take  it.  He  only  said  : 

"I  am  glad  to  find  that  I  have  been  misinformed.  You 
do  not  appear  to  me  very  ill." 

"  Monsieur,"  replied  the  old  man,  "Ishallsoo .:  be  bet- 
ter." He  paused  and  said  :  "  I  shall  be  dead  in  three  hours. ' ' 

Then  he  continued  :  "  I  am  something  of  a  physician  :  I 


FRENCH   LITERATURE.  375 

know  the  steps  by  which  death  approaches ;  yesterday  my 
feet  only  were  cold ;  to-day  the  cold  has  crept  to  my  kiiees, 
now  it  has  reached  the  waist ;  when  it  touches  the  heart  all 
will  be  over.  The  sunset  is  lovely,  is  it  not  ?  I  had  myself 
wheeled  out  to  get  a  final  look  at  nature.  You  can  speak  to 
me  ;  that  will  not  tire  me.  You  do  well  to  come  to  see  a  man 
who  is  dying.  It  is  good  that  these  moments  should  have 
witnesses.  Every  one  has  his  fancy  ;  I  should  like  to  live 
until  the  dawn,  but  I  know  I  have  scarcely  life  for  three 
hours.  It  will  be  night,  but  what  matters  it?  to  finish  is  a 
very  simple  thing.  One  does  not  need  morning  for  that.  Be 
it  so ;  I  shall  die  in  the  starlight." 

The  old  man  turned  toward  the  herdsboy ; 

"Little  one,  go  to  bed  ;  thou  didst  watch  last  night ;  thou 
art  weary." 

The  child  went  into  the  hut. 

The  old  man  followed  him  with  his  eyes,  and  added,  as  if 
speaking  to  himself:  "  While  he  is  sleeping  I  shall  die;  the 
two  slumbers  keep  fit  company. " 

The  bishop  was  not  as  much  affected  as  he  might  have 
been  ;  it  was  not  his  idea  of  godly  death  ;  we  must  tell  all, 
for  the  little  inconsistencies  of  great  souls  should  be  men- 
tioned ;  he  who  had  laughed  so  heartily  at  ' '  his  highness  " 
was  still  slightly  shocked  at  not  being  called  Monseigneur, 
and  was  almost  tempted  to  answer  "  citizen."  He  felt  a  de- 
sire to  use  the  brusque  familiarity  common  enough  with  doc- 
tors and  priests,  but  which  was  not  customary  with  him. 

This  conventionist  after  all,  this  representative  of  the 
people,  had  been  a  power  on  the  earth ;  and  perhaps  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life  the  bishop  felt  himself  disposed  to  be 
severe.  The  conventionist,  however,  treated  him  with  a 
modest  consideration  and  cordiality  in  which  perhaps  might 
have  been  discerned  that  humility  which  is  befitting  to  one 
so  nearly  dust  unto  dust. 

The  bishop,  on  his  part,  although  he  generally  kept  him- 
self free  from  curiosity,  which  to  his  idea  was  almost  offen- 
sive, could  not  avoid  examining  the  conventionist  with  an 
attention  for  which,  as  it  had  not  its  source  in  sympathy,  his 
conscience  would  have  condemned  him  as  to  any  other  man  ; 


UTKRATURE  Of  AI,!,  NATIONS. 

but  a  conventionist  he  looked  upon  as  an  outlaw,  even  to  the 
law  of  charity. 

G ,  with   his  self-possessed  manner,  erect  figure  and 

vibrating  voice>  was  one  of  those  noble  octogenarians  who 
are  the  marvel  of  the  physiologist.  The  Revolution  produced 
many  of  these  men  equal  to  the  epoch ;  one  felt  that  here  was 
a  tested  man.  Though  so  near  death,  he  preserved  all  the 
appearance  of  health.  His  bright  glances,  his  firm  accent 
and  the  muscular  movements  of  his  shoulders  seemed  almost 
sufficient  to  disconcert  death.  Azrael,  the  Mohammedan  an- 
gel of  the  sepulchre,  would  have  turned  back,  thinking  he 

had  mistaken  the  door.     G appeared  to  be  dying  because 

he  wished  to  die.  There  was  freedom  in  his  agony  ;  his  legs 
only  were  paralyzed ;  his  feet  were  cold  and  dead,  but  his 
head  lived  in  full  power  of  life  and  light.  At  this  solemn 

moment  G seemed  like  the  king  in  the  Oriental  tale,  flesh 

above  and  marble  below.  The  bishop  seated  himself  upon  a 
stone  near  by.  The  beginning  of  their  conversation  was  ex 
abrupto. 

"I  congratulate  you,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  reprimand. 
"  At  least  you  did  not  vote  for  the  execution  of  the  king." 

The  conventionist  did  not  seem  to  notice  the  bitter  em- 
phasis placed  upon  the  words  "  at  least."  The  smiles  van- 
ished from  his  face  and  he  replied  : 

"  Do  not  congratulate  me  too  much,  monsieur  ;  I  did  vote 
for  the  destruction  of  the  tyrant." 

And  the  tone  of  austerity  confronted  the  tone  of  severity. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  the  bishop. 

"  I  mean  that  man  has  a  tyrant,  ignorance.  I  voted  for 
the  abolition  of  that  tyrant.  That  tyrant  has  begotten  royalty, 
which  is  authority  springing  from  the  false,  while  science  is 
authority  springing  from  the  true.  Man  should  be  governed 
by  science." 

"And  conscience,"  added  the  bishop. 

"  The  same  thing ;  conscience  is  innate  knowledge  that 
we  have. 

M.  Bienvenu  listened  with  some  amazement  to  this  lan- 
guage, novel  as  it  was  to  him. 

The  conventionist  went  on  : 


FRENCH  LITERATURE.  377 

"  As  to  lyouis  XVI.,  I  said  No.  I  do  not  believe  that  I 
have  the  right  to  kill  a  man,  but  I  feel  it  a  duty  to  extermi- 
nate evil.  I  voted  for  the  downfall  of  the  tyrant ;  that  is  to 
say,  for  the  abolition  of  prostitution  for  woman,  of  slavery  for 
man,  of  night  for  the  child.  In  voting  for  the  republic  I 
voted  for  that ;  I  voted  for  fraternity,  for  harmony,  for  light. 
I  assisted  in  casting  down  prejudices  and  errors  ;  their  down- 
fall brings  light !  We  caused  the  old  world  to  fall !  the  old 
world,  a  vase  of  misery,  reversed,  becomes  an  urn  of  joy  to  the 
human  race." 

ujoy  alloyed,"  said  the  bishop. 

"  You  might  say  joy  troubled,  and,  at  present,  after  this 
fatal  return  of  the  past  which  we  call  1814,  joy  disappeared. 
Alas  !  the  work  was  imperfect,  I  admit ;  we  demolished  the 
ancient  order  of  things  physically,  but  not  entirely  in  the 
idea.  To  destroy  abuses  is  not  enough ;  habits  must  be 
changed.  The  wind-mill  has  gone,  but  the  wind  is  there  yet." 

"  You  have  demolished.  To  demolish  may  be  useful,  but 
I  distrust  a  demolition  effected  in  anger  ! ' ' 

u  Justice  has  its  anger,  M.  Bishop,  and  the  wrath  of  justice 
is  an  element  of  progress.  Whatever  may  be  said  matters 
not ;  the  French  Revolution  is  the  greatest  step  in  advance 
taken  by  mankind  since  the  advent  of  Christ ;  incomplete  it 
may  be,  but  it  is  sublime.  It  loosened  all  the  secret  bonds  of 
society,  it  softened  all  hearts,  it  calmed,  appeased,  enlightened; 
it  made  the  waves  of  civilization  to  flow  over  the  earth.  It 
was  good.  The  French  Revolution  is  the  consecration  of 
humanity." 

The  bishop  could  not  help  murmuring :  "  Yes,  '93  !" 

The  conventionist  raised  himself  in  his  chair  with  a 
solemnity  well-nigh  mournful,  and,  as  well  as  a  dying  person 
could  exclaim,  he  exclaimed  : 

"Ah  !  you  are  there  !  '93  !  I  was  expecting  that.  A  cloud 
had  been  forming  for  1,500  years ;  at  the  end  of  fifteen  cen- 
turies it  burst.  You  condemn  the  thunderbolt." 

Without,  perhaps,  acknowledging  it  to  himself,  the  bishop 
felt  that  he  had  been  touched  ;  however,  he  made  the  best  of 
it  and  replied  : 

"  The  judge  speaks  in  the  name  of  justice,  the  priest  in 


378  LITERATURE;  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

the  name  of  pity,  which  is  only  a  more  exalted  justice.     A 
thunderbolt  should  not  be  mistaken." 

And  he  added,  looking  fixedly  at  the  conventionist  : 
"  Louis  XVII?" 

The  conventionist  stretched  out  his  hand  and  seized  the 
bishop's  arm. 

' '  Louis  XVII.  Let  us  see  !  For  whom  do  you  weep  ? — 
for  the  innocent  child  ?  It  is  well  ;  I  weep  with  you.  For 
the  royal  child?  I  ask  time  to  reflect.  To  my  view  the 
brother  of  Cartouche,  an  innocent  child,  hung  by  a  rope 
under  his  arms  in  the  Place  de  Greve  till  he  died,  for  the  sole 
crime  of  being  the  brother  of  Cartouche,  is  a  no  less  sad  sight 
than  the  grandson  of  Louis  XV,  an  innocent  child,  murdered 
in  the  tower  of  the  Temple  for  the  sole  crime  of  being  the 
grandson  of  Louis  XV." 

"  Monsieur,"  said  the  bishop,  "I  dislike  this  coupling  of 
names. 

"  Cartouche,  or  Louis  XV ;  for  which  are  you  concerned  ?" 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence  ;  the  bishop  regretted 
almost  that  he  had  come,  and  yet  he  felt  strangely  and  inex- 
plicably moved. 

The  conventionist  resumed  :  "  Oh,  M.  Priest !  you  do  not 
love  the  harshness  of  the  truth,  but  Christ  loved  it.  He  took 
a  scourge  and  purged  the  temple ;  his  flashing  whip  was  a 
rude  speaker  of  truths  ;  when  he  said  "  Sinite parvulos"  [Let 
little  children],  he  made  no  distinction  among  the  little  ones. 
He  was  not  pained  at  coupling  the  dauphin  of  Barabbas  with 
the  dauphin  of  Herod.  Monsieur,  innocence  is  its  own  crown  ! 
Innocence  has  only  to  act  to  be  noble  !  She  is  as  august  in 
rags  as  in  the  fleur  de  lys" 

"  That  is  true,"  said  the  bishop,  in  a  low  tone. 

"I  repeat,"  continued  the  old  man  ;  "you  have  mentioned 
Louis  XVII.  Let  us  weep  together  for  all  the  innocent,  for 
all  the  martyrs,  for  all  the  children,  for  the  low  as  well  as  for 
the  high.  I  am  one  of  them,  but  then,  as  I  have  told  you, 
we  must  go  farther  back  than  '93,  and  our  tears  must  begin 
before  Louis  XVII.  I  will  weep  for  the  children  of  kings 
with  you,  if  you  will  weep  with  me  for  the  little  ones  ol  the 
people. ' ' 


FRENCH   LITER ATURB.  379 

"  I  weep  for  all,"  said  the  bishop. 

"Equally,"  exclaimed  G ,  "and  if  the  balance  inclines, 

let  it  be  on  the  side  of  the  people ;  they  have  suffered  longer." 

There  was  silence  again,  broken  at  last  by  the  old  man. 
He  raised  himself  upon  one  elbow,  took  a  pinch  of  his  cheek 
between  his  thumb  and  his  bent  forefinger,  as  one  does  mechan- 
ically in  questioning  and  forming  an  opinion,  and  addressed 
the  bishop  with  a  look  full  of  all  the  energies  of  agony.  It 
was  almost  an  anathema. 

"  Yes,  monsieur,  it  is  for  a  long  time  that  the  people  have 
been  suffering,  and  then,  sir,  that  is  not  all ;  why  do  you  come 
to  question  me  and  to  speak  of  Louis  XVII.  ?  I  do  not  know 
you.  Since  I  have  been  in  this  region  I  have  lived  within 
these  walls  alone,  never  passing  beyond  them,  seeing  none 
but  this  child  who  helps  me.  Your  name  has,  it  is  true, 
reached  me  confusedly,  and  I  must  say  not  very  indistinctly, 
but  that  matters  not.  Adroit  men  have  so  many  ways  of 
imposing  upon  this  good  simple  people.  For  instance,  I  did 
not  hear  the  sound  of  your  carriage.  You  left  it,  doubtless, 
behind  the  thicket,  down  there  at  the  branching  of  the  road. 
You  have  told  me  that  you  were  the  bishop,  but  that  tells 
me  nothing  about  your  moral  personality.  Now,  then,  I 
repeat  my  question:  Who  are  you?  You  are  a  bishop,  a 
prince  of  the  church,  one  of  those  men  who  are  covered 
with  gold,  with  insignia,  and  with  wealth,  who  have  fat 

livings — the    See   of  D ,   15,000    francs   regular,    10,000 

francs  contingent,  total  25,000  francs — who  have  kitchens, 
who  have  retinues,  who  give  good  dinners,  who  eat  moor-hens 
on  Friday,  who  strut  about  in  your  gaudy  coach  like  peacocks, 
with  lackeys  before  and  lackeys  behind,  and  who  have  palaces, 
and  who  roll  in  your  carriages  in  the  name  of  Jesus  Christ 
who  went  barefooted.  You  are  a  prelate ;  rents,  palaces, 
horses,  valets,  a  good  table,  all  the  good  things  of  life,  you 
have  these,  like  all  the  rest,  and  you  enjoy  them,  like  all  the 
rest ;  very  well,  but  that  says  too  much  or  not  enough  ;  that 
does  not  enlighten  me  as  to  your  intrinsic  worth,  that  which 
is  peculiar  to  yourself,  you  who  come  probably  with  the  claim 
of  bringing  me  wisdom.  To  whom  am  I  speaking?  Who 
are  you  ? ' } 


380  LITERATURE  OF  AU<  NATIONS. 

The  bishop  bowed  his  head  and  replied  :  "  Vermis 

' '  A  worm  of  the  earth  in  a  carriage  ! ' '  grumbled  the  old 
man. 

It  was  the  turn  of  the  conventionist  to  be  haughty  and  of 
the  bishop  to  be  humble. 

The  bishop  replied  with  mildness : 

"  Monsieur,  be  it  so.  But  explain  to  me  how  my  carriage, 
which  is  there  a  few  steps  behind  the  trees,  how  my  good 
table  and  the  moor-fowl  that  I  eat  on  Friday,  how  my  25,000 
livres  of  income,  how  my  palace  and  my  lackeys  prove  that 
pity  is  not  a  virtue,  that  kindness  is  not  a  duty,  and  that  '93 
was  not  inexorable  ?" 

The  old  man  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead  as  if  to 
dispel  a  cloud. 

"  Before  answering  you,"  said  he,  "  I  beg  your  pardon.  I 
have  done  wrong,  monsieur ;  you  are  in  my  house,  you  are 
my  guest.  I  owe  you  courtesy.  You  are  discussing  my  ideas ; 
it  is  fitting  that  I  confine  myself  to  combating  your  reasoning. 
Your  riches  and  your  enjoyments  are  advantages  that  I  have 
over  you  in  the  debate,  but  it  is  not  in  good  taste  to  avail 
myself  of  them.  I  promise  you  to  use  them  no  more." 

"  I  thank  you,"  said  the  bishop. 

G went  on :  "Let  us  get  back  to  the  explanation  that 

you  ask  of  me.     Where  were  we  ?     What  were  you  saying  to 
me?     That  '93  was  inexorable?" 

"  Inexorable,  yes,"  said  the  bishop.  "  What  do  you  think 
of  Marat  clapping  his  hands  at  the  guillotine?  " 

"  What  do  you  think  of  Bossuet  chanting  the  '  Te  Deum' 
over  the  dragonnades?  " 

The  answer  was  severe,  but  it  reached  its  aim  vvith  the 
keenness  of  a  dagger.  The  bishop  was  staggered,  no  reply 
presented  itself ;  but  it  shocked  him  to  hear  Bossuet  spoken 
of  in  that  manner.  The  best  men  have  their  fetishes,  and 
sometimes  they  feel  almost  crushed  at  the  little  respect  that 
logic  shows  them. 

The  conventionist  began  to  gasp ;  the  agonizing  asthma, 
which  mingles  with  the  latest  breath,  made  his  voice  broken  ; 
nevertheless,  his  soul  yet  appeared  perfectly  lucid  in  his  eyes. 
He  continued : 


FRENCH   UTERATURB.  381 

u  Let  us  have  a  few  more  words  here  and  there — I  would 
like  it.  Outside  of  the  Revolution  which,  taken  as  a  whole, 
is  an  immense  human  affirmation,  '93,  alas  !  is  a  reply.  You 
think  it  inexorable,  but  the  whole  monarchy,  monsieur? 
Carrier  is  a  bandit ;  but  what  name  do  you  give  to  Montrevel? 
Fouquier-Tinville  is  a  wretch ;  but  what  is  your  opinion  of 
Lamoignon  Baville  ?  Maillard  is  frightful,  but  Saulx  Tavan- 
nes,  if  you  please  ?  Le  p£re  Duchcnc  is  ferocious,  but  what 
epithet  will  you  furnish  me  for  Le  pere  Letellier  ?  Jourdan- 
Coupe-Tete  is  a  monster,  but  less  than  the  Marquis  of  Lou- 
vois.  Monsieur,  monsieur,  I  lament  Marie  Antoinette,  arch- 
duchess and  queen  ;  but  I  lament  also  that  poor  Huguenot 
woman  who,  in  1685,  under  Louis  le  Grand,  monsieur,  while 
nursing  her  child,  was  stripped  to  the  waist  and  tied  to  a 
post,  while  her  child  was  held  before  her ;  her  breast  swelled 
with  milk  and  her  heart  with  anguish  ;  the  little  one,  weak 
and  famished,  seeing  the  breast,  cried  with  agony;  and  the 
executioner  said  to  the  woman,  to  the  nursing  mother: 
*  Recant ! '  giving  her  the  choice  between  the  death  of  her 
child  and  the  death  of  her  conscience.  What  say  you  to  this 
Tantalus  torture  adapted  to  a  mother  ?  Monsieur,  forget  not 
this ;  the  French  Revolution  had  its  reasons.  Its  wrath  will 
be  pardoned  by  the  future  ;  its  result  is  a  better  world.  From 
its  most  terrible  blows  comes  a  caress  for  the  human  race.  I 
must  be  brief.  I  must  stop.  I  have  too  good  a  cause ;  and  I 
am  dying." 

And,  ceasing  to  look  at  the  bishop,  the  old  man  completed 
his  idea  in  these  few  tranquil  words : 

"Yes,  the  brutalities  of  progress  are  called  revolutions. 
When  they  are  over  this  is  recognized  ;  that  the  human  race 
has  been  harshly  treated,  but  that  it  has  advanced.' ' 

The  conventionist  thought  that  he  had  borne  down  suc- 
cessively one  after  the  other  all  the  interior  intrenchments  of 
the  bishop.  There  was  one  left,  however,  and  from  this,  the 
last  resource  of  Mgr.  Bienvenu's  resistance,  came  forth  these 
words,  nearly  all  the  rudeness  of  the  exordium  reappearing : 

"  Progress  ought  to  believe  in  God.  The  good  cannot 
have  an  impious  servitor.  An  atheist  is  an  evil  leader  of  the 
human  race." 


382  LITERATURE;  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

The  old  representative  of  the  people  did  not  answer.  He 
was  trembling.  He  looked  up  into  the  sky  and  a  tear  gathered 
slowly  in  his  eye.  When  the  lid  was  full  the  tears  rolled 
down  his  livid  cheek,  and  he  said,  almost  stammering,  low 
and  talking  to  himself,  his  eye  lost  in  the  depths : 

"  O  Thou  !  O  Ideal !  Thou  alone  dost  exist !" 

The  bishop  felt  a  kind  of  inexpressible  emotion. 

After  brief  silence  the  old  man  raised  his  finger  toward 
heaven  and  said : 

"  The  infinite  exists.  It  is  there.  If  the  infinite  had  no 
me,  the  me  would  be  its  limit ;  it  would  not  be  the  infinite  ; 
in  other  words,  it  would  not  be.  But  it  is.  Then  it  has  a 
me.  This  me  of  the  infinite  is  God." 

The  dying  man  pronounced  these  last  words  in  a  loud 
voice  and  with  a  shudder  of  ecstasy,  as  ii  he  saw  some  one. 
When  he  ceased  his  eyes  closed.  The  effort  had  exhausted 
him.  It  was  evident  that  he  had  .lived  through  in  one 
minute  the  few  hours  that  remained  to  him.  What  he  had 
said  had  brought  him  near  to  him  who  is  in  death.  The  last 
moment  was  at  hand. 

The  bishop  perceived  it ;  time  was  pressing. 

He  had  come  as  a  priest ;  from  extreme  coldness  he  had 
passed  by  degrees  to  extreme  emotion ;  he  looked  upon  those 
closed  eyes,  he  took  that  old,  wrinkled  and  icy  hand  and  drew 
closer  to  the  dying  man. 

"This  hour  is  the  hour  of  God.  Do  you  not  think  it 
would  be  a  source  of  regret  if  we  should  have  met  in  vain  ? ' ' 

The  conventionist  re-opened  his  eyes.  Calmness  was  im- 
printed upon  his  face,  where  there  had  been  a  cloud. 

"M.  Bishop,"  said  he,  with  a  deliberation  which  perhaps 
came  still  more  from  the  dignity  of  his  soul  than  from  the 
ebb  of  his  strength,  "I  have  passed  my  life  in  meditation, 
study  and  contemplation.  I  was  sixty  years  old  when  my 
country  called  me  and  ordered  me  to  take  part  in  her  affairs. 
I  obeyed.  There  were  abuses,  I  fought  them  ;  there  were 
tyrannies,  I  destroyed  them  ;  there  were  rights  and  principles, 
I  proclaimed  and  confessed  them.  The  soil  was  invaded,  I 
defended  it ;  France  was  threatened,  I  offered  her  my  breast. 
I  was  not  rich  ;  I  am  poor.  I  was  one  of  the  masters  of  the 


FRENCH   LITERATURE.  383 

state,  the  vaults  of  the  bank  were  piled  with  specie,  so  that 
we  had  to  strengthen  the  walls  or  they  would  have  fallen 
under  the  weight  of  gold  and  of  silver ;  I  dined  in  the  Rue 
de  PArbre-Sec  at  22  sous  for  the  meal.  I  succored  the  op- 
pressed, I  solaced  the  suffering.  True,  I  tore  the  drapery 
from  the  altar ;  but  it  was  to  stanch  the  wounds  of  the  coun- 
try. I  have  always  supported  the  forward  march  of  the 
human  race  toward  the  light,  and  I  have  sometimes  resisted 
a  progress  which  was  without  pity.  I  have,  on  occasion, 
protected  my  own  adversaries,  your  friends.  There  is  at 
Peteghern,  in  Flanders,  at  the  very  place  where  the  Merovin- 
gian kings  had  their  summer  palace,  a  monastery  of  Urban- 
ists,  the  Abbey  of  Sainte  Claire  in  Beaulieu,  which  I  saved 
in  X793  >  I  nave  done  mY  duty  according  to  my  strength,  and 
the  good  that  I  could.  After  which  I  was  hunted,  hounded, 
pursued,  persecuted,  slandered,  railed  at,  spit  upon,  cursed, 
proscribed.  For  many  years  now,  with  my  white  hairs,  I 
have  perceived  that  many  people  believed  they  had  a  right  to 
despise  me ;  to  the  poor,  ignorant  crowd  I  have  the  face  of 
the  damned,  and  I  accept,  hating  no  man  myself,  the  isolation 
of  hatred.  Now  I  am  eighty-six  years  old ;  I  am  about  to  die. 
What  have  you  come  to  ask  of  me?'7 

"Your  blessing,"  said  the  bishop.  And  he  fell  upon  his 
knees. 

When  the  bishop  raised  his  head  the  face  of  the  old  man 
had  become  august.  He  had  expired. 

The  bishop  went  home  deeply  absorbed  in  thought.  He 
spent  the  whole  night  in  prayer.  The  next  day  some  per- 
sons, emboldened  by  curiosity,  tried  to  talk  with  him  of  the 
conventionist,  G ;  he  merely  pointed  to  heaven. 

From  that  moment  he  redoubled  his  tenderness  and 
brotherly  love  for  the  weak  and  the  suffering. 

Every  allusion  to  uthat  old  scoundrel  G "  threw  him 

into  a  strange  reverie.  No  one  could  say  that  the  passage  of 
that  soul  before  his  own,  and  the  reflex  of  that  grand  con- 
science upon  his  own,  had  not  had  its  effect  upon  his  approach 
to  perfection. 


P.  J.  BERANGER. 

THE  supreme  chief  of  French  song- 
writers  is  Pierre  Jean  de  Beranger  (1780- 
1857).  Born  the  grandson  of  a  poor  tailor 
and  son  of  a  grocery  clerk — his  mother  deserted  by  her  hus- 
band— Be*ranger  was  truly  one  of  the  people,  and  always 
remained  one  of  them.  But  from  his  garret  flew  forth  the 
songs  that  were  to  make  him  famous,  that  spoke  to  the  hearts 
of  the  people,  and  glorified  Napoleon  Bonaparte  as  the  idol 
of  the  people.  Beranger  tells  us :  uGod  in  His  grace  bade  me 
sing,  sing,  poor  little  one!"  And  as  he  once  said  in  a  pre- 
face to  his  poems:  "My  songs  are  myself."  Sir  Walter 
Besant,  surveying  the  world  ot  song,  declares  not  only  that 
"Be'ranger  sums  up  the  poetry  of  the  esptit gaulots ;  in  him 
is  the  gayety  of  the  trouve~res,  the  malice  of  the  fabliaux,  the 
bonhommie  of  La  Fontaine,  the  clearness  of  Marot,  the  bonne 
maniere  of  Villon,  and  the  sense  of  Regnier,"  but  also  that 
"  there  has  been,  indeed,  no  lyrist  like  him  in  any  language ; 
none  with  a  voice  and  heart  so  intensely  human,  so  sympa- 
thetic, so  strong  to  move,  so  quick  to  feel.  .  .  .  He  is  the  one 
great  and  unique  type  of  the  perfect  chansonnier" 

It  is  this  very  middle-class  aspect  of  Beranger,  which 
caused  the  classicists  and  romanticists  alike  to  scorn  his  Muse 
as  vulgar  and  pedestrian,  that  really  constitutes  his  greatness. 
He  reflects  the  ideas  of  the  masses  of  his  day.  Furthermore, 
there  is  a  notable  spice  of  Gallic  mockery  even  in  his  songs 
of  patriotism  and  democracy.  He  continued,  too,  the  tradi- 
tions of  the  eighteenth  century  chanson,  only  adding  a  human 
tenderness  and  a  patriotic  sentiment  to  the  old  songs  of  wine 
and  woman.  Thus  he  glorified  the  chanson  and  eclipsed  even 
the  prince  of  light  song-writers  of  France  before  him— De- 
384 


FRENCH  UTBRATURB.  385 

saugiers  (1772-1827).  Although  B&ranger  became  a  member 
of  the  jolly  Caveau— the  tavern  club  of  wit  and  song  insti- 
tuted by  Piron  (1689-1773),  "the  greatest  epigrammatist  of 
France/'  of  which  Desaugiers  was  president,  BeVanger  lifted 
the  chanson  to  a  new  level  and  to  a  grander  mission. 

As  a  boy  he  had  seen  the  Bastile  taken  and  the  stirring 
events  of  his  youth  inspired  him  with  a  mixed  Bonapartism 
and  republicanism  that  swayed  him  to  the  end,  through  all 
the  vicissitudes  of  political  change.  His  gratitude  was  due 
to  the  Bonapartes,  too,  for  he  was  saved  from  poverty  and 
obscurity  by  L,ucien  Bonaparte.  In  1 804  he  sent  to  Lucien 
some  of  his  songs.  L,ucien  gave  Be*ranger  the  fee  sent  him- 
self from  the  Institute  and  secured  the  needy  poet  a  clerk- 
ship under  the  Empire.  Well  did  he  repay  the  debt,  for  he 
more  than  any  one  else  established  the  Napoleonic  legend. 
Of  that  legend  his  "  Remembrances  of  the  People  "  was,  and 
remains,  the  best  popular  expression.  A  similar  Napole- 
onic worship  breathed  in  " The  Lesson,"  " He  is  not  dead, " 
"Madame  M£re,"  and  "The  Old  Flag."  His  contempt  for 
the  returning  "emigre*"  nobles  was  demonstrated  with 
withering  sarcasm  in  the  "  Marquis  de  Carabas."  After  the 
Restoration  he  was  repeatedly  fined  and  imprisoned,  but  after 
its  overthrow  he  sang  as  he  pleased,  and  he  was  buried  with 
high  honors  by  the  Second  Empire  government.  He  added 
the  element  of  pathos  to  the  chanson,  as  well  as  discovered 
the  lyric  capabilities  of  the  common  people,  and  he  had  an 
actual  love  romance  of  a  lifetime  with  a  poor  ouvri£re,  Judith 
Frere.  But  for  posterity  a  special  interest  attaches  to  the 
satirical  and  sarcastic  chansons,  such  as  that  on  ( *  The  Sena- 
tor," and  on  the  bonhomme  king,  the  "Roi  d'Yvetot,"  a 
sharp  contrast  to  the  ambitious  Napoleon. 

As  Professor  Saintsbury  has  remarked:  "Only  prejudice 
against  his  political,  religious  and  ethical  attitude  can  ob- 
scure the  lively  wit  of  his  best  work  ;  its  remarkable  pathos ; 
its  sound  common  sense ;  its  hearty,  if  somewhat  narrow  and 
mistaken,  patriotism;  its  freedom  from  self-seeking  and  per- 
sonal vanity,  spite,  or  greed;  its  thorough  humanity  and 
wholesotne  good  feeling.  Nor  can  it  be  fairly  said  that  his 
range  is  narrow.  'L,e  Grenier,'  4Le  Roi  d'Yvetot,'  'Roger 
ix— 25 


386  UTERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

Bon  temps,'  'The  Remembrances  of  the  People,'  'The  Fools,' 
4  The  Beggars,'  cover  a  considerable  variety  of  tones  and 
subjects,  all  of  which  are  happily  treated."  Beranger's  Vol- 
tairism may  be  seen  in  his  malicious  "Baptism  of  Voltaire." 

THE  KING  OF  YVETOT. 

THIS  exceedingly  celebrated  song,  written  in  1813,  takes  its  title 
from  an  old.  tavern  sign  in  the  Norman  town  of  Yvetot. 

There  was  a  King  of  Yvetot, 
Who,  little  famed  in  story, 
Went  soon  to  bed,  to  rise  was  slow, 

And  slumbered  without  glory. 
'Twas  Jenny  crowned  this  jolly  chap 
With  nothing  but  a  cotton  cap 

Mayhap. 

Ho!  ho!  ho!  ho!  ha!  ha!  ha!  ha! 
What  a  famous  king  was  he,  oh  la! 

Within  his  thatched  palace,  he 

Consumed  his  four  meals  daily ; 
He  rode  about  his  realm  to  see 

Upon  a  donkey,  gaily  ; 
Besides  his  dog,  no  guard  he  had, 
He  hoped  for  good  when  things  were  bad, — 
Ne'er  sad. 

No  costly  tastes  his  soul  possessed, 

Except  a  taste  for  drinking, 
And  kings  who  make  their  subjects  blest 

Should  live  well,  to  my  thinking ; 
At  table  he  his  taxes  got, 
From  every  cask  he  took  a  pot, 
I  wot. 

With  ladies,  too,  of  high  degree 

He  was  a  fav'rite  rather, 
And  of  his  subjects  probably 

In  every  sense  a  father. 
He  never  levied  troops,  but  when 
He  raised  the  target,  calling  then 
His  men. 


FRENCH  LITERATURE.  387 

He  did  not  widen  his  estates 

Beyond  their  proper  measure ; 
A  model  of  all  potentates, 

His  only  code  was  pleasure. 
And  'twas  not  till  the  day  he  died 
His  faithful  subjects  ever  sighed 
Or  cried. 

This  wise  and  worthy  monarch's  face 

Is  still  in  preservation, 
And  as  a  sign  it  serves  to  grace 

An  inn  of  reputation. 
On  holidays,  a  joyous  rout 
Before  it  push  their  mugs  about 

And  shout, 

Ho!  ho!  ho!  ho!  ah!  ah!  ah!  ah! 
What  a  famous  king  was  he,  oh,  la! 

THE  WHITE  COCKADE. 

THIS  ironical  song  was  written  in  1816,  when  the  Royalists  gave  a 
dinner  to  celebrate  the  entrance  of  the  Allies  into  Paris  after  Waterloo. 

Great  day  of  peace  and  happiness, 

By  which  the  vanquished  free  are  made ; 

Great  day  that  dawned  our  France  to  bless 
With  honor  and  the  white  cockade ! 

The  theme  for  ladies'  ears  is  meet, — 
Sing  the  success  of  monarchs  brave ; 

How  rebel  Frenchmen  they  could  beat, 
And  all  the  pious  Frenchmen  save. 

Sing  how  the  foreign  hordes  could  pour 

Into  our  land,  and  how  with  ease 
They  opened  every  yielding  door, — 

When  we  had  given  up  the  keys. 

Had  it  not  been  for  this  blessed  day, 

What  dire  misfortunes  now  might  lower ! 

The  tricolor  might — who  can  say  ? — 
Float  over  London's  ancient  tower. 

Our  future  history  will  record 
How  to  the  Cossacks  of  the  Don. 


LITERATURE   OF  ALL   NATIONS. 

Kneeling,  we  pardon  once  implored 
For  Frenchmen  slain  and  glory  gone. 

Then  to  the  foreigners  drink  we, 

At  this  most  national  repast, 
Who  brought  back  our  nobility, 

After  so  many  dangers  past. 

Another  toast,  and  then  we've  done, — 
A  cup  to  Henry's  name  is  due, 

Who  took,  by  his  owii  arm  alone, 
The  throne  of  France  and  Paris  too. 

THE  REMEMBRANCES  OF  THE  PEOPLE. 

AMID  the  lowly  straw-built  shed, 
I/ong  will  the  peasant  seek  his  glory; 

And,  when  some  fifty  years  have  fled 
The  thatch  will  hear  no  other  story. 
Around  some  old  and  hoary  dame 
The  village  crowd  will  oft  exclaim, — 
4 'Mother,  now,  till  midnight  chimes, 

Tell  us  tales  of  other  times. 
He  wronged  us  !  say  it  if  they  will, 
The  people  love  his  memory  still ; — 
Mother,  now  the  day  is  dim, 
Mother,  tell  us  now  of  him  ' " 

"My  children,  in  our  village  here, 
I  saw  him  once  by  kings  attended  ; 

That  time  has  passed  this  many  a  year, 
For  scarce  my  maiden  days  were  ended. 
On  foot  he  climbed  the  hill,  and  nigh 
To  where  I  watched  him  passing  by : 

Small  his  hat  upon  that  day 
And  he  wore  a  coat  of  gray ; 
And  when  he  saw  me  shake  with  dread, 
'Good  da}'  to  you,  my  dear ! '  he  said." 
"  Oh  !  my  mother,  is  it  true? 
Mother,  did  he  speak  to  you?" 

"From  this  a  year  had  passed  away. 

Again  in  Pans'  streets  I  found  him : 

To  Notre  Dame  he  rode  that  day, 


FRENCH  UTERATURB.  389 

With  all  his  gallant  court  around  him. 
All  eyes  admired  the  show  the  while, 
No  face  that  did  not  wear  a  smile : 
'See  how  brightly  shine  the  skies! 
"Tis  for  him  ! '  the  people  cries : 
And  then  his  face  was  soft  with  joy 
For  God  had  blessed  him  with  a  boy." 
"Mother,  Oh,  how  glad  to  see 
Days  that  must  so  happy  be ! " 

"  But  when  o'er  our  province  ran 
The  bloody  armies  of  the  strangers, 

Alone  he  seemed,  that  famous  man, 
To  fight  against  a  thousand  dangers. 
One  evening,  just  like  this  one  here, 
I  heard  a  knock  that  made  me  fear : 
Entered,  when  I  oped  the  door, 
He  and  guards  perhaps  a  score ; 
And,  seated  where  I  sit,  he  said, 
'  To  what  a  war  have  I  been  led ' '  " 
"Mother,  and  was  that  the  chair? 
Mother,  was  he  seated  there? 

"  '  Dame,  I  am  hungry/  then  he  cried ; 
I  set  our  bread  and  wine  before  him ; — 
There  at  the  fire  his  clothes  he  dried, 
And  slept  while  watched  his  followers  o'er  him. 
When  with  a  start  he  rose  from  sleep, 
He  saw  me  in  my  terror  weep, 
And  he  said,  *  Nay,  our  France  is  strong ; 
Soon  I  will  avenge  her  wrong.' 
This  is  the  dearest  thing  of  mine, — 
The  glass  in  which  he  drank  his  wine." 
1  c  And  through  change  of  good  and  ill, 
Mother,  you  have  kept  it  still" 

ROGER  HOLIDAY. 

(Roger  Bontemps.) 

A  PATTERN  meant  to  be,    Which  grumblers  should  not  scorn, 
In  deepest  poverty    Stout  Holiday  was  born. 
'  'Just  lead  the  life  you  please, "     ' '  Ne'er  mind  what  people  say, ' ' — 
Sound  maxims,  such  as  these,     Guide  Roger  Holiday. 


390  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

On  Sunday  he  goes  out,     Dressed  in  his  father's  hat, 
Which  he  twines  round  about     With  roses, — and  all  that. 
A  cloak  of  sorry  stuff    Then  makes  up  his  array ; 
'Tis  surely  smart  enough    For  Roger  Holiday. 

Strange  knickknacks  has  he  got, —    A  portrait  he  loves  still, 
A  crazy  bed,  a  pot    Which  Providence  may  fill, 
An  empty  box,  a  flute,     A  pack  of  cards  for  play ; 
These  simple  treasures  suit    Stout  Roger  Holiday. 

For  children  of  the  town     Full  many  a  game  has  he ; 
He  gains  a  high  renown    By  stories — rather  free ; 
Of  naught  he  loves  to  speak     But  songs  and  dances  gay ; 
Such  themes  the  learning  make     Of  Roger  Holiday. 

For  want  of  choicest  wine,     To  drink  what  he  can  get ; 
To  value  ladies  fine     Far  less  than  Sue  or  Bet ; 
To  pass  his  days  in  bliss,     And  love, — as  best  he  may, 
This  is  the  wisdom,  this,     Of  Roger  Holiday 

He  prays :  ' '  Great  Power  above,     Do  not  severely  tax 
My  faults,  but  show  Thy  love    When  I  am  rather  lax ; 
The  season  of  my  end     Make  still  a  month  of  May , 
This  blessing,  Father,  send    To  Roger  Holiday." 

Ye  poor,  with  envy  cursed ;     Ye  rich,  for  more  who  long , 
Ye  who,  by  fortune  nursed,     At  last  are  going  wrong  ; 
Ye  who  are  doomed  to  find    Wealth,  honors,  pass  away, 
The  pattern  bear  in  mind    Of  Roger  Holiday. 

LOW-BORN. 

I  FIND  they're  taking  me  to  task 

For  writing  "  de "  before  my  name: 
"Are  you  of  noble  line?  "  they  ask. 

No ! — Heaven  be  lauded  for  the  same : 
No  patent  signed  by  royal  hand 

On  stately  vellum  can  I  show, 
I  only  love  my  native  land, — 

Oh,  I  am  low-born — very  low. 

No  "de"  rny  ancestors  could  give; 

Their  story  in  my  blood  I  trace  .- 
Beneath  a  tyrant  forced  to  live , 

They  cursed  the  despot  of  their  race. 


FRENCH   LITERATURE.  391 

But  he  for  privilege  was  born, 

And  soon,  alas  !  he  let  them  know, 
He  was  the  millstone,— they  the  corn: 

Oh,  I  am  low-born — very  low. 

Ne'er  did  my  fathers,  I  can  say, 

Live  on  their  peasants'  sweat  and  blood, 
Or  seek  the  traveler  to  waylay, 

While  toiling  through  the  darksome  wood. 
Not  one  his  native  village  spurned, 

Or  by  some  wizard  at  a  blow 
Was  to  a  royal  lackey  turned : 

Oh,  I  am  low-born — very  low. 

My  brave  forefathers  never  thought 

To  take  a  part  in  civil  broils ; 
And  ne'er  the  English  leopard  brought 

To  feed  upon  their  country's  spoils ; 
And  when  the  Church,  through  base  intrigue. 

Brought  all  to  ruin,  sure  though  slow, 
Not  one  of  them  would  sign  the  league : 

Oh,  I  am  low-born — very  low. 

Seek  not  my  humor  to  control, 

I  grasp  the  banner  which  you  spurn ; 
Ye  nobles  of  the  buttonhole, 

To  rising  suns  your  incense  burn. 
A  common  race  is  dear  to  me ; 

Though  gay,  I  feel  my  neighbors'  woe ; 
I  only  flatter  poverty  : 

Oh,  I  am  low-born — very  low. 

MY  LITTLE  CORNER. 

OH,  nothing  in  this  world  I  prize, — 

I'll  seek  my  little  nook  once  more; 
The  galley  slave  his  prison  flies, 

To  find  a  refuge  on  the  shore. 
When  in  my  humble  resting-place, 

As  a  Bedouin  I  am  free ; 
So  grant  me,  friends,  this  trifling  grace, 

My  little  corner  leave  to  me  ! 


392  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

There  tyranny  no  army  brings ; 

There  rights  I  balance  without  fear ; 
There  sentence  I  can  pass  on  kings, 

And  o'er  the  people  shed  a  tear. 
The  future  then,  with  smiling  face, 

In  my  prophetic  dreams  I  see ; 
Oh,  grant  me,  friends,  this  trifling  grace, 

My  little  corner  leave  to  me  ! 

There  can  I  wield  a  fairy's  wand, 

Can  further  good,  can  banish  ill, 
Move  palaces  at  my  command, 

And  trophies  raise  where'er  I  will. 
The  kings  whom  on  the  throne  I  place, 

Think  power  combined  with  love  should  be  ;- 
Oh,  grant  me,  friends,  this  trifling  grace, 

My  little  corner  leave  to  me ! 

'Tis  there  my  soul  puts  on  new  wings, 

And  freely  soars  above  the  world, 
While  proudly  I  look  down  on  kings, 

And  see  them  to  perdition  hurled. 
One  only  scion  of  his  race 

Escapes,  and  I  his  glory  see  ; — 
Oh,  grant  me,  friends,  this  trifling  grace. 

My  little  corner  leave  to  me ! 

Thus  patriotic  plans  I  dream, 

By  heaven  valued,  not  by  earth ; 
Oh,  learn  my  reveries  to  esteem, — 

Your  world,  indeed,  is  little  worth. 
The  nymphs  who  high  Parnassus  grace, 

The  guardians  of  my  toils  shall  be ; — 
Oh,  grant  me,  friends,  this  trifling  grace, 

My  little  corner  leave  to  me ! 


GEORGE  SAND. 

MADAME  DUDEVANT,  whose 
maiden  name  was  Armatine 
Lucile  Aurore  Dupin,  and 

who  was  known  to  the  world  as  George  Sand,  stands  highest 
in  point  of  genius  among  that  small  group  of  famous  women 
of  this  century  which  includes  George  Eliot,  Elizabeth 
Barrett  Browning,  Charlotte  Bronte,  Harriet  Martineau,  and, 
perhaps,  Caroline  Herschell.  She  was  born  in  1804  and  died 
in  1876  ;  was  educated  in  a  convent,  and  two  years  after  leav- 
ing it,  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  was  married  to  Baron  Dudevant, 
a  military  personage  much  older  than  herself,  whose  nature 
and  character  were  in  all  respects  profoundly  incompatible 
with  hers.  She  had  in  her  veins  the  instincts  of  liberty  and 
revolt;  and  in  1831,  after  nine  years  of  matrimonial  endur- 
ance, she  left  her  husband  and  went  to  Paris  with  Jules  San- 
deau,  to  live  a  life  strangely  compounded  of  passion,  intellect 
and  independence.  She  and  Jules  were  lovers,  comrades  and 
collaborators  ;  their  first  work  was  done  together ;  but  later, 
at  Jules'  suggestion,  she  struck  out  for  herself  in  literature. 
She  was  strongly  interested  in  politics,  and,  as  might  have 
been  expected,  embraced  the  republican  cause,  and  advocated 
it  in  many  publications.  She  went  further,  and  in  the  ardor 
of  her  youth  championed  socialism  and  free  love ;  but  age 
brought  wisdom  and  moderation,  though  she  remained  always 
on  the  side  of  freedom.  Her  life  was  a  story  of  mental  and 
moral  growth ;  she  feared  nothing  and  studied  everything ; 
her  lovers,  like  Alfred  de  Musset  and  Chopin,  were  mere 
elements  in  her  self-education  ;  she  was  greater  than  they, 
and  when  she  had  sounded  them,  she  left  them.  Her  genius 
enabled  her  to  use  experience  such  as  few  women  survive  in 

393 


394  UTERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

fonn  of  exquisite  literary  art ;  she  drew  from  seeming  chaos 
the  essence  of  a  deep  philosophy  ;  she  "beat  her  music  out;" 
and  when  she  attained  her  intellectual  majority,  she  gave  the 
world  the  benefit  of  it  in  such  masterpieces  of  serene  beauty 
and  wisdom  as  "Consuelo,"  "  L/Hotnme  de  Neige,"  "Mau- 
prat,"  "  La  Petite  Fadette."  But  her  earlier  books,  such  as 
"Indiana,"  "Valentine"  and  "Jacques,"  have  also  the  value 
which  belongs  to  audacity,  insight,  and  the  fire  of  youthful 
genius,  rendered  enchanting  by  a  matchless  literary  style. 
The  immense  vogue  which  her  books  enjoyed  is  due,  how- 
ever, less  to  their  extraordinary  literary  merit  than  to  the 
fact  that  she  voiced  the  unrest  and  speculations  of  her  age  ; 
as  Renan  well  said,  she  was  "  the  JEolian  harp  of  her  time." 
lyike  the  young  Zoroaster,  she  longed  at  first  to  "  tear  down 
this  tiresome  old  sky;"  but  when  she  had  learned  its  true 
sublimity,  she  bent  her  energies  to  dispelling  the  clouds  and 
vapors  which  obscured  its  radiance, — to  vindicating  the  im- 
mortal truths  which  error  and  cowardice  had  distorted.  She 
is  a  great  figure ;  and  her  final  influence  is  beneficent. 

CONSUELO'S  TRIUMPH. 

CONSUEU)  made  haste  to  the  church  Mendicanti,  whither 
the  crowd  were  already  flocking,  to  listen  to  Porpora's  ad- 
mirable music.  She  went  up  to  the  organ-loft  in  which  the 
choir  were  already  in  air,  with  the  professor  at  his  desk.  On 
entering  she  knelt  down,  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and 
prayed  fervently  and  devoutly. 

"Oh,  my  God,"  she  cried  with  the  voice  of  the  heart, 
"  thou  knowest  that  I  seek  not  advancement  for  the  humilia- 
tion of  my  rivals.  Thou  knowest  that  I  have  no  thought  to 
surrender  myself  to  the  world  and  worldly  acts,  abandoning 
thy  love,  and  straying  into  the  paths  of  vice.  Thou  knowest 
that  pride  dwells  not  in  me,  and  that  I  implore  thee  to  sup- 
port me,  and  to  swell  my  voice,  and  to  expand  my  thoughts 
as  I  sing  thy  praises,  only  that  I  may  dwell  with  him  whom 
my  mother  permitted  me  to  love." 

When  the  first  sounds  of  the  orchestra  called  Consuelo  to 
her  place,  she  rose  slowly,  her  mantilla  fell  from  her  shoulders, 


FRENCH   UTKRATURB.  395 

and  her  face  was  at  length  visible  to  the  impatient  and  rest- 
less spectators  in  the  neighboring  tribune.  But  what  mar- 
velous jhange  is  here  in  this  young  girl,  just  now  so  pale,  so 
cast  down,  so  overwhelmed  by  fatigue  and  fear !  The  ether 
of  heaven  seemed  to  bedew  her  lofty  forehead,  while  a  gentle 
languor  was  diffused  over  the  noble  and  graceful  outlines  of 
her  figure.  Her  tranquil  countenance  expressed  none  of  those 
petty  passions,  which  seek,  as  it  were,  to  exact  applause. 
There  was  something  about  her  solemn,  mysterious  and  ele- 
vated—at once  lovely  and  affecting. 

"  Courage,  my  daughter,'*  said  the  professor  in  a  low 
voice.  "  You  are  about  to  sing  the  music  of  a  great  master, 
and  he  is  here  to  listen  to  you.n 

"  Who  ? — Marcello  ? ' '  said  Consuelo,  seeing  the  professor 
lay  the  Hymns  of  Marcello  open  on  the  desk. 

"  Yes — Marcello,"  replied  he.  "Sing  as  usual — nothing 
more  and  nothing  less — and  all  will  be  well." 

Marcello,  then  in  the  last  year  of  his  life,  had  in  fact  come 
once  again  to  revisit  Venice,  his  birth-place,  where  he  had 
gained  renown  as  composer,  as  writer,  and  as  magistrate.  He 
had  been  full  of  courtesy  towards  Porpora,  who  had  requested 
him  to  be  present  in  his  school,  intending  to  surprise  him 
with  the  performance  of  Consuelo,  who  knew  his  magnificent 
"I deli  immensi  narrano"  by  heart.  Nothing  could  be  bet- 
ter adapted  to  the  religious  glow  that  now  animated  the  heart 
of  this  noble  girl.  So  soon  as  the  first  words  of  this  lofty  and 
brilliant  production  shone  before  her  eyes,  she  felt  as  if  wafted 
into  another  sphere.  Forgetting  Count  Zustiniani — forgetting 
the  spiteful  glances  of  her  rivals — forgetting  even  Anzoleto — 
she  thought  only  of  God  and  of  Marcello,  who  seemed  to 
interpret  those  wondrous  regions  whose  glory  she  was  about 
to  celebrate.  What  subject  so  beautiful ! — what  conception 
so  elevated ! — 

I  cieli  immensi  narrano  The  boundless  heavens  declare 
Del  grandi  Iddio  la  gloria.       The  glory  of  the  great  God. 

II  firmamento  lucido  The  shining  firmament 
All  universo  annunzia  Proclaims  to  the  world 
Quanto  sieno  mirabili  How  wonderful  are 

Delia  sua  destra  le  opere.          The  works  of  His  right  hand. 


396  UTERATURE  OP  AU,  NATIONS. 

A  divine  glow  overspread  her  features,  and  the  sacred  fire 
of  genius  darted  from  her  large  black  eyes,  as  the  vaulted 
roof  rang  with  that '  unequalled  voice,  and  with  those  lofty 
accents  which  could  only  proceed  from  an  elevated  intellect, 
joined  to  a  good  heart.  After  he  had  listened  for  a  few  in- 
stants, a  torrent  of  delicious  tears  streamed  from  Marcello's 
eyes.  The  count,  unable  to  restrain  his  emotion,  exclaimed 
— "  By  the  Holy  Rood,  this  woman  is  beautiful !  She  is 
Santa  Cecelia,  Santa  Teresa,  Santa  Consuelo  !  She  is  poetry, 
she  is  music,  she  is  faith  personified !"  As  for  Anzoleto, 
who  had  risen,  and  whose  trembling  limbs  barely  sufficed  to 
sustain  him  with  the  aid  of  his  hands,  which  clung  convul- 
sively to  the  grating  of  the  tribune,  he  fell  back  upon  his 
seat  ready  to  swoon,  intoxicated  with  pride  and  joy.  It 
required  all  the  respect  due  to  the  church,  to  prevent  the 
numerous  dilettanti  in  the  crowd  from  bursting  into  applause, 
as  if  they  had  been  in  the  theatre.  The  count  would  not 
wait  until  the  close  of  the  service  to  express  his  enthusiasm 
to  Porpora  and  Consuelo.  She  was  obliged  to  repair  to  the 
tribune  of  the  Count  to  receive  the  thanks  and  gratitude  of 
Marcello.  She  found  him  so  much  agitated  as  to  be  hardly 
able  to  speak. 

uMy  daughter, "  said  he,  with  a  broken  voice,  "  receive 
the  blessing  of  a  dying  man.  You  have  caused  me  to  forget 
for  an  instant  the  mortal  suffering  of  many  years.  A  miracle 
seems  exerted  in  my  behalf,  and  the  unrelenting  frightful 
malady  appears  to  have  fled  forever  at  the  sound  of  your 
voice.  If  the  angels  above  sing  like  you,  I  shall  long  to  quit 
the  world  in  order  to  enjoy  that  happiness  which  you  have 
made  known  to  me.  Blessings  then  be  on  you,  O  my  child, 
and  may  your  earthly  happiness  correspond  to  your  deserts ! 
I  have  heard  Faustina,  Romanina,  Cuzzoni,  and  the  rest ;  but 
they  are  not  to  be  named  along  with  you.  It  is  reserved  for 
you  to  let  the  world  hear  what  it  has  never  yet  heard,  and  to 
make  it  feel  what  no  man  has  ever  yet  felt." 

Consuelo,  overwhelmed  by  this  magnificent  eulogium, 
bowed  her  head,  and  almost  bending  to  the  ground,  kissed, 
without  being  able  to  utter  a  word,  the  livid  fingers  of  the 
dying  man. 


FRENCH   LITERATURE.  397 

During  the  remainder  of  the  service,  Consuelo  displayed 
energy  and  resources  which  completely  removed  any  hesitation 
Count  Zustiniani  might  have  felt  respecting  her.  She  led, 
she  animated,  she  sustained  the  choir,  displaying  at  each 
instant  prodigious  powers,  and  the  varied  qualities  of  her 
voice  rather  than  the  strength  of  her  lungs.  For  those  who 
know  how  to  sing  do  not  become  tired,  and  Consuelo  sang 
with  as  little  effort  and  labor  as  others  might  have  in  merely 
breathing.  She  was  heard  above  all  the  rest,  not  because  she 
screamed  like  those  performers,  without  soul  and  without 
breath,  but  because  of  the  unimaginable  purity  and  sweet- 
ness of  her  tones.  Besides,  she  felt  that  she  was  understood 
in  every  minute  particular.  She  alone,  amidst  the  vulgar 
crowd,  the  shrill  voices  and  imperfect  trills  of  those  around, 
her,  was  a  musician  and  a  master.  She  filled,  therefore, 
instinctively  and  without  ostentation,  her  powerful  part,  and 
as  long  as  the  service  lasted  she  took  the  prominent  place 
which  she  felt  was  necessary.  After  all  was  over,  the  choris- 
ters imputed  it  to  her  as  a  grievance  and  a  crime ;  and  those 
very  persons  who,  failing  and  sinking,  had  as  it  were  implored 
her  assistance  with  their  looks,  claimed  for  themselves  all  the 
eulogiums  which  are  given  to  the  school  of  Porpora  at  large. 

THE  PLOUGHMAN  AND  His  CHILD. 

(From  '  The  Devil's  Pool.") 

I  WAS  walking  on  the  border  of  a  field  which  some  peasants 
were  carefully  preparing  for  the  approaching  seed-time.  The 
area  was  vast;  the  landscape  was  vast  also,  and  enclosed 
with  great  lines  of  verdure,  somewhat  reddened  by  the  ap- 
proach of  autumn,  that  broad  field  of  vigorous  brown,  where 
recent  rains  had  left,  in  some  furrows,  lines  of  water  which  the 
sun  made  glitter  like  fine  threads  of  silver.  The  day  had  been 
clear  and  warm,  and  the  earth,  freshly  opened  by  the  cutting 
of  the  ploughshares,  exhaled  a  light  vapor.  In  the  upper 
part  of  the  field,  an  old  man  gravely  held  his  plough  of 
antique  form,  drawn  by  two  quiet  oxen,  with  pale  yellow 
skins — real  patriarchs  of  the  meadow — large  in  stature,  rather 
thin,  with  long  turned-down  horns,  old  laborers  whom  long 


398  LITERATURE  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

habit  had  made  "  brothers,"  as  they  are  called  by  our  country 
people,  and  who,  when  separated  fiom  each  other,  refuse  to 
work  with  a  new  companion,  and  let  themselves  die  of  sorrow. 
The  old  husbandman  worked  slowly,  in  silence,  without  use- 
less efforts ;  his  docile  team  did  not  hurry  any  more  than  he; 
but,  owing  to  the  continuity  of  a  labor  without  distraction, 
and  the  appliance  of  tried  and  well-sustained  strength,  his 
furrow  was  as  soon  turned  as  that  of  his  son,  who  was  plough* 
ing  at  a  short  distance  from  him,  with  four  oxen  not  so  stout, 
in  a  vein  of  stronger  and  more  stony  soil. 

But  that  which  afterwards  attracted  my  attention  was 
really  a  beautiful  spectacle — a  noble  subject  for  a  painter.  At 
the  other  extremity  of  the  arable  field,  a  good-looking  young 
man  was  driving  a  magnificent  team :  four  pairs  of  young 
animals  of  a  dark  color,  a  mixture  of  black  and  bay  with 
streaks  of  fire,  with  those  short  and  frizzly  heads  which  still 
savor  of  the  wild  bull,  those  large  savage  eyes,  those  sudden 
motions,  that  nervous  and  jerking  labor  which  still  is  irritated 
by  the  yoke  and  the  goad,  and  only  obeys  with  a  start  of 
anger  the  recently  imposed  authority.  They  were  what  are 
called  newly-yoked  steers.  The  man  who  governed  them  had 
to  clear  a  corner  formerly  devoted  to  pasturage,  and  filled 
with  century-old  stumps,  the  task  of  an  athlete,  for  which 
his  energy,  his  youth,  and  his  eight  almost  unbroken  animals 
were  barely  sufficient. 

A  child  six  or  seven  years  old,  beautiful  as  an  angel,  with 
his  shoulders  covered,  over  his  blouse,  by  a  lamb-skin,  which 
made  him  resemble  the  little  Saint  John  the  Baptist  of  the 
painters  of  the  Restoration,  walked  in  the  furrow  parallel  to 
the  plough,  and  touched  the  flank  of  the  oxen  with  a  long 
and  light  stick  pointed  with  a  slightly  sharpened  goad.  The 
proud  animals  quivered  under  the  small  hand  of  the  child, 
and  made  their  yokes  and  the  thongs  bound  over  their  fore- 
heads creak,  while  they  gave  violent  shocks  to  the  plough 
handles.  When  a  root  stopped  the  ploughshare,  the  husband- 
man shouted  with  a  powerful  voice,  calling  each  beast  by  his 
name,  but  rather  to  calm  than  excite;  for  the  oxen,  irritated 
by  this  sudden  resistance,  leaped,  dug  up  the  ground  with 
their  broad  forked  feet,  and  would  have  cast  themselves  out 


FRENCH   LITERATURE.  399 

of  the  track,  carrying  the  plough  across  the  field,  if,  with  his 
voice  and  goad,  the  young  man  had  not  restrained  the  four 
nearest  him,  while  the  child  governed  the  other  four.  He 
also,  shouted,  the  poor  little  fellow,  with  a  voice  he  wished  to 
make  terrible,  but  which  remained  as  gentle  as  his  angelic 
face.  It  was  all  beautiful  in  strength  or  in  grace,  the  land- 
scape, the  man,  the  child,  the  bulls  under  the  yoke;  and  in 
spite  of  this  powerful  struggle  in  which  the  earth  was  over- 
come, there  was  a  feeling  of  gentleness  and  deep  calm  which 
rested  upon  all  things.  When  the  obstacle  was  surmounted, 
and  the  team  had  resumed  its  equal  and  solemn  step,  the 
husbandman,  whose  feigned  violence  was  only  an  exercise  of 
vigor,  and  an  expenditure  of  activity,  immediately  recovered 
the  serenity  of  simple  souls,  and  cast  a  look  of  paternal  satis- 
faction on  his  child,  who  turned  to  smile  on  him. 

Then  the  manly  voice  of  this  young  father  of  a  family 
struck  up  the  melancholy  and  solemn  strain  which  the  ancient 
tradition  of  the  country  transmits,  not  to  all  ploughmen  in- 
discriminately, but  to  those  most  consummate  in  the  art  of 
exciting  and  sustaining  the  ardor  of  the  oxen  at  work.  This 
chant,  the  origin  of  which  was  perhaps  considered  sacred,  and 
to  which  mysterious  influences  must  formerly  have  been 
attributed,  is  still  reputed,  at  this  day,  to  possess  the  virtue  of 
keeping  up  the  courage  of  the  animals,  of  appeasing  their 
dissatisfaction,  and  of  charming  the  ennui  of  their  long  task. 
It  is  not  enough  to  know  how  to  drive  them  well  while  trac- 
ing a  perfectly  straight  furrow,  to  lighten  their  labor  by  raising 
or  depressing  the  point  of  the  ploughshare  opportunely  in  the 
soil :  no  one  is  a  perfect  ploughman  if  he  does  not  know  how 
to  sing  to  the  oxen,  and  this  is  a  science  apart,  which  requires 
taste  and  peculiar  adaptation.  This  chant  is,  to  say  the  truth, 
only  a  kind  of  recitative,  interrupted  and  resumed  at  will. 
Its  irregular  form  and  its  false  intonations,  speaking  accord- 
ing to  the  rules  of  musical  art,  render  it  untranslatable.  But 
it  is  none  the  less  a  beautiful  chant,  and  so  appropriate  to  the 
nature  of  the  labor  which  it  accompanies,  to  the  gait  of  the 
oxen,  to  the  calmness  of  those  rural  scenes,  to  the  simplicity 
of  the  men  who  sing  it,  that  no  genius,  a  stranger  to  the 
labors  of  the  soil,  could  have  invented  it,  and  no  singer  other 


400  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

than  a  "finished  ploughman n  of  that  country  could  repeat  it. 
At  those  epochs  of  the  year  when  there  is  no  other  labor  and 
no  other  movement  in  the  country  than  that  of  ploughing, 
this  chant,  so  simple  and  so  powerful,  rises  like  the  voice  of 
a  breeze,  to  which  its  peculiar  toning  gives  it  a  kind  of  resem- 
blance. The  final  note  of  each  phrase,  continued  and  trilled 
with  an  incredible  length  and  power  of  breath,  ascends  a 
quarter  of  a  note  with  systematic  dissonance.  This  is  wild, 
but  the  charm  of  it  is  invincible,  and  when  you  become  accus- 
tomed to  hear  it,  you  cannot  conceive  how  any  song  could 
be  sung  at  those  hours  and  in  those  places  without  disturbing 
their  harmony. 

It  was  then  that,  on  seeing  this  beautiful  pair,  the  man 
and  the  child,  accomplish  under  such  poetical  conditions,  and 
with  so  much  gracefulness  united  with  strength,  a  labor  full 
of  grandeur  and  solemnity,  I  felt  a  deep  pity  mingled  with  an 
involuntary  respect.  "Happy  the  husbandman!"  Yes, 
doubtless,  I  should  be  happy  in  his  place,  if  my  arm,  suddenly 
become  strong,  and  my  chest,  become  powerful,  could  thus 
fertilize  and  sing  nature,  without  my  eyes  ceasing  to  see  and 
my  brain  to  comprehend  the  harmony  of  colors  and  of  sounds, 
the  fineness  of  tones,  and  the  gracefulness  of  outlines — in  one 
word,  the  mysterious  beauty  of  things !  and  especially  with- 
out my  heart  ceasing  to  be  in  relation  with  the  divine  feeling 
which  presided  over  the  immortal  and  sublime  creation  ! 


A 
LlMMORTALlFE- 


2^)2021 


JAN  1  0  1990 


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